babysitters100
by OzQueene
Summary: 100 separate stories for LJ/DW's babysitters100 comm. Various characters/pairings/situations. CH 51/ACCIDENT: Charlotte's favourite question is one with a definitive answer she can never seem to discover.
1. Crisis

I've started a challenge on livejournal/dreamwidth (babysitters100) in which 100 prompts are set to inspire 100 separate stories. I'm sure some of the chapters will be linked together, but I'm hoping to write some pairings, characters and situations I've never written before.

What you'll probably see a lot of: Spiers, Thomases, Pikes. Parent fic (John and Dee, Richard, Elizabeth.) Het. Gen. Angst, drama, family, friendship, some smut, some fluff.

Every chapter is going to be different, so if one isn't to your liking, try the next one!

* * *

**Title/Prompt:** Crisis  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG  
**Word count:** 4011  
**Summary:** Kristy has a moment of crisis when she realises she and Mary Anne are growing apart.

**Notes:** I think this dances on the border of gen and F/F. There are definite shippy notes, but I think you can read it as friendship, as well.

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

* * *

It's a moment of crisis.

I'm not sure what came over me. I suppose everyone has to hit some sort of emotional self-destruction sooner or later. I hadn't expected Mary Anne to be the one to prompt mine.

The invitation has been pinned to my fridge with a magnet in the shape of a watermelon for four weeks. I sent my RSVP late, but she told me she'd saved me a place anyway. Now it seems like time is racing by and the birthday dinner with Mary Anne and her friends has slipped from being days away to being hours away.

I have torn my bedroom apart and, for the first time ever, I despair at the amount of jeans and t-shirts I own. I've never been to the restaurant listed on the invitation, but something tells me it's not one of the jeans and t-shirt kind of places I usually frequent.

So I tell myself it's a moment of crisis. And I go to Claudia. 

* * *

"You know, Mary Anne isn't going to care what you're wearing," Claudia says for the hundredth time, her voice filtering through the suspiciously-gauzy curtain in the changing room of a boutique she confidently steered me into.

"I know," I answer tightly, struggling with a zip on the back of yet another dress.

I can hear the grin in Claudia's voice. "You're worried about what her new college friends are going to think of you, aren't you?"

"Don't be stupid." I get the zip done up and cast a glance over myself. No.

Claudia hears my sigh of impatience, which she recognises as the sign of another failure, and tuts quietly. "I'll be back in a second," she says.

I can feel myself getting emotional, and it infuriates me. The truth is, I _do_ care what Mary Anne's new college friends think of me. If only because it feels like she's slipping away from me, and it's all due to them. Somewhere in the back of my brain I've locked onto the idea that being accepted by her new friends will allow me to cling to her and keep her as my own.

They read and they're arty and they talk about the boys in their classes, forgetting that I don't know what they're studying or the boys they're currently coveting. I don't consider myself to be ignorant when it comes to most subjects, but in the presence of Mary Anne's new friends, even the subject of _Mary Anne_ begins to feel challenging.

So I thought to myself that somehow, a makeover would fix these things. Or, at least, temporarily trick them into accepting me so I could just have one night where Mary Anne and I could swap jokes and stories without me feeling like I'm standing on the wrong side of a glass door, looking in on her.

Claudia pushes another armful of dresses through the curtain and I glimpse her eye in the mirror. She gives me a smile and I realise that she hasn't believed _one_ of my excuses. I'm relieved that she hasn't called me out on it, despite the fact she knows I'm having a completely superficial moment.

Under my instructions, she has kept my choices to dark fabrics. I don't exactly want to draw attention to myself, I just want to draw attention away from the person I was _last time_ I saw Mary Anne and her friends.

I stand in front of the mirror in a dress that's somehow fitted and floaty at the same time, black and flowing against my skin. There's a graze on my knee from softball that will probably show itself when I sit down, but I figure I can get away with it, considering I'll be sitting down at a table for most of the evening.

I ask for Claudia's opinion and she looks at me carefully, cocking her head so one bright, dangling earring reveals itself from beneath her curtain of hair. She grins at me and I grin back awkwardly.

We silently agree that this dress is the dress that will help me resolve my crisis. 

* * *

It was Claudia's idea to go and visit Stacey, and I don't consider it to be a terrible idea until she's trying to match makeup to my skin tone.

"I think you're the only person I know who doesn't wear makeup," she says, sounding half-admiring.

"All your guy friends wear makeup?" I ask, unable to help myself.

"Some of them," she replies absent-mindedly. "Let's do your hair first."

I'm starting to think this idea goes beyond terrible. But Stacey always looks great and I suppose everything will work out if I can gain a smidge of sophistication from her.

I can't help but fidget as she stands behind me in the salon, confidently giving orders and directions to the woman cutting my hair. I chew my lip as I'm put through my first ever colouring treatment, and I find myself gazing fixedly at my knees as the final result is combed out into sleek, dark locks that fall to my shoulders.

"Kristy, will you at least look at it, please?" Stacey asks, sounding exasperated. "You look great."

I risk a glance into the mirror and, to my relief, things aren't that bad. My hair is a couple of shades darker and whatever the hairdresser has done to it has made it glossy and silky.

But I can't help but think things are starting to snowball a bit. The first crisis looks like it's starting a new crisis, and the whole thing is giving me a bit of a headache.

I want to look nice for Mary Anne - but most of all, I want to look like the sort of person Mary Anne becomes friends with these days. 

* * *

Mary Anne is, typically, early for her birthday dinner. She has brought a book and is sitting on a bench near the coatroom, one leg crossed neatly over the other and a faint frown on her face. She is completely absorbed in the pages resting on her lap and I take a moment to collect myself and draw in a deep breath.

"Hey," I say. I'm embarrassed when my voice comes out as a wheeze. I sound like Abby after she's run a sprint across a freshly-cut lawn.

Mary Anne looks up, and my heart sinks when immediate recognition fails to register on her face. She blinks and her mouth drops open.

"Kristy!" She stands, tossing her book carelessly back onto the bench behind her, and reaches for a hug. I move in, but she stops and puts her hands on my shoulders, looking at me with wide eyes and a smile.

My heart is positively thundering.

"You changed your hair!" she said.

"Yeah." I grin awkwardly.

"And you're wearing a dress, and makeup!"

"Uh-huh." I glance down at my feet. "No heels, though."

She grins down at my black ballet flats. "I'm kind of relieved," she laughs, and then she hugs me.

"Happy birthday," I mumble, smiling into her shoulder. For the moment, it's just the two of us, and I realise just how much I've _missed_ her. I clutch her for a few seconds longer than necessary and she pats my back as though she knows what I'm thinking.

"Let's go and get our table," she says, and it's kind of a relief to see her eyes are a bit misty. "We can talk before everyone else arrives.

I can't hide how pleased I am at this suggestion

I watch her as we're led to the table and are seated. She walks with confidence and a casual air that I haven't ever really noticed before. College has changed Mary Anne - these new friends of hers have changed Mary Anne. While I can't say that the changes are negative, my wretched tendency to feel jealousy and resentment causes me to dislike it slightly. I miss the old days, when we were together and it was me who led the way.

I'm aware of how ridiculous this is. I'm appalled at how cruel it is of me to wish Mary Anne would go back to being a meek teenager who simply follows her loud-mouth friend.

"How's college?" Mary Anne asks.

"Nothing's changed much since the last time I saw you," I admit, giving her a sheepish grin.

"Except you," she says, sounding amused.

"Uh, yeah..." I look down at myself, feeling very self-conscious and awkward. I try to tell myself that I don't care what people think of my appearance - I never have. It doesn't work.

"When did you get your hair done?" Mary Anne asks, reaching out to finger the newly-sliced tips against my shoulders.

"This afternoon," I admit. "Courtesy of Stacey. And the dress is courtesy of Claudia."

Mary Anne gives me a look of curiosity and worry. I know she's going to ask me if I'm okay, and I've already planned to laugh it off and tell her I simply wanted a change, when we're interrupted by the arrival of two of her college friends.

They gush and give air kisses and smile and nod, saying hi to me and acting as though they remember me. I'm not sure I remember them. All of Mary Anne's college friends look the same. 

* * *

I've never seen Mary Anne drink before. It's only wine, but I'm still surprised when she accepts a glass refill. She opens gifts at the table and giggles. Someone places a birthday tiara on her head, and instead of blushing and pulling it off, she leaves it perched precariously in her hair, not caring that it draws extra attention to her in a restaurant full of strangers.

I feel as though we've reversed roles and I don't like it.

When the plates have been cleared away and the candles in the middle of the table have burned low, the other girls insist upon playing silly word games and asking questions that have answers prompted by alcohol.

"So, Kristy..." Veronica leans back in her chair and fixes her gaze upon me. I like her the least. She has hair that seems to change colour between purple and red in the dim light of the restaurant, and she wears too much eyeliner and insists upon being called _V._ Most of all, however, I hate the way she snatched the chair beside Mary Anne, opposite me. I hate the way she leans in to talk to Mary Anne quietly, sharing stupid giggles and stories that have nothing to do with anyone else at the table.

I wait for her to finish her stupid _So, Kristy,_ comment. I am automatically set on defensive mode and although I haven't had much to drink, I know the wine and jealousy in my blood won't stop me from starting an argument if Veronica says something to piss me off.

"You've known Mary Anne a long time," she says, looking at me with a somewhat icy expression.

I match her glare with one of my own."A very long time," I say.

Mary Anne shifts awkwardly and focuses on her wine glass, lifting it to her lips for a slow drink.

"Does she have any secrets she hasn't told us?" Veronica asks, giving Mary Anne what I assume is supposed to be a friendly grin.

Mary Anne's cheeks instantly flush pink.

"No," I answer shortly.

Veronica looks alarmed at my tone and Mary Anne gives me a silent, pleading look. _Please don't start an argument, Kristy._

It's her birthday. I'm being entirely selfish. I've been entirely selfish about this whole thing from the time I got the invitation. Instead of trying to celebrate with her, I've been trying to figure out how to change her back into the person I consider familiar.

The chatter starts up again somewhat hesitantly, and more wine is brought to the table.

I lean over. "Hey, I'm gonna go," I say. "I have to get back early tomorrow."

"You can sleep on the train," Mary Anne says softly, sounding disappointed.

I smile and shake my head. "I'll see you another time, Mary Anne. Sorry. I'm just feeling kinda tired tonight. Have a good time, okay?" I kiss her cheek and stand, briefly pausing to push a handful of notes into Veronica's hand, hoping it will cover mine (and Mary Anne's) portion of the bill.

I leave, and when the night air hits my face I want to crumble into an emotional mess for acting so ridiculously.

* * *

Back in my hotel I strip myself of my dress and set the alarm so I can catch the earliest train possible. I stand under the shower, scrubbing away the makeup Stacey applied so carefully, and think miserably about how stupid I must have seemed to Mary Anne.

There's no way I could have seemed like Kristy Thomas tonight. I showed up in a dress with a new haircut and a careful layer of makeup and I acted tearful and emotional at the end of the night.

I tell myself it's hormones and general tiredness, but deep down I know it can be attributed to my age-old relationship with jealousy. I've never handled other people moving in on Mary Anne. When she and Dawn became friends, it felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. I lost a large part of myself when Mr. Spier married Mrs. Schafer, too.

Mary Anne didn't mean it, of course. But she didn't need me as much after that. She had Dawn. And whenever I brought up the subject of Mary Anne and myself, it sounded so damn _petty_ it made me sick to my stomach.

Now it's even worse, because we live in different cities and we study different subjects... Our varied interests have never really bothered us before, but college is different. College opened our eyes and suddenly Mary Anne found herself facing a whole new lifestyle.

She considers it exciting. I consider it a crisis.

* * *

I lift my head off the pillow and squint at the clock. It's just gone past 2AM and I can't figure out why I'm awake. I take a large gulp of water from the glass on my bedside table, feeling slightly dizzy - something I attribute to the earlier glasses of wine.

I sit up properly when I hear a gentle knock at my door.

I peer out cautiously and my heart leaps when I see Mary Anne in the corridor. I swing the door open immediately.

"Hi," she breathes, giving me a weary grin.

"Mary Anne, are you drunk?" I hear the disbelief in my voice and I wish I could take it back. I don't want to give her the impression I disapprove. Her life is her life, and she's in college, _and_ it's her birthday. She's allowed to be drunk.

"I am a bit," she admits, pushing past me into the room. She sinks onto my rumpled bed and kicks her shoes off.

"Are you all right?" I ask. I realise I'm only wearing cotton briefs and a t-shirt that's probably a size too small. I dismiss my worries as quickly as they come - she's seen me wearing less, at some point or another, I'm sure.

"Are _you_ all right?" she asks accusingly, looking up at me.

I sit beside her. "It's just a haircut, Mary Anne."

"No it's not." She sounds surprisingly bitter. Again, I mentally curse the changes that have come upon her since college.

"Why are you always so rude to them?" she asks softly. "There's no need for it, Kristy. They're nice people."

"I know." I fidget slightly. "I'm sorry, Mary Anne."

She shakes her head and I can see tears brimming on her lashes. I ignore them, staring down at my toes, knowing that if she knows I've seen how upset she is, she'll start to sob.

"You've changed," she says after a moment.

I look up at her in surprise. "No I haven't," I say defensively. "_You've_ changed."

"I have new friends," she says patiently. "That's it, Kristy. You? You show up with a glare on your face and you basically refuse to participate in any conversation that revolves around anything that happened to me _after_ I left Stoneybrook."

I'm horrified to be accused of this. I'm even more horrified when I realise it's true. I sit on the bed, wrestling with the desire to snap at her or burst into tears.

"I'm sorry," I mutter eventually.

"Can you just tell me what's wrong?" she asks wearily. I can smell alcohol on her and I'm upset that this is how she's spending her birthday - drunk and miserable, and arguing with me.

"I'm scared I'm losing you," I mumble, feeling ridiculous. Of course she's going to say I'm not losing her. She'll say we'll always be friends and that I just have to _talk_ to her. But in practise it's not that easy, and that's what scares me.

But she doesn't say anything. She sighs and puts her arm around me. I rest my head on her shoulder, feeling guilty, miserable and confused.

Mary Anne has always been constant and consistent - the person to turn to when you feel lost and need to find your way back to whatever's normal and whatever's right. Now it's like she's shifted and I've turned around to find her not there at all. It's disconcerting to realise I have always needed her more than she's ever needed me.

Mary Anne rubs her face tiredly. "Hey, Kristy, can I use your shower?"

"Yeah, sure." I sit up and motion towards the bathroom door.

She squeezes my hand and heads for the bathroom, a little unsteady on her feet.

I pull the blankets over my legs again and sit up in bed, watching the television on mute as I listen to the shower running. She's left the door ajar and I can smell my own body lotion being used - something fruity and frothy that Claudia gave me last Christmas. Something I've never used but just threw into the bottom of my bag before I caught the train here.

Mary Anne comes out wrapped in a towel, her hair only slightly damp around the edges - the parts the shower cap didn't cover properly. The damp tendrils are already starting to curl slightly.

She sits on the end of the bed with her back to me, staring down at her toes.

"Are you okay?" I ask. "Do you want some water?"

"I'll be okay."

I kick the blankets away and shuffle down the bed to sit behind her. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk tonight. I'll apologise to your friends tomorrow"

"No, it's okay."

I put my hand on her shoulder and shuffle closer to her. "Really, Mary Anne. I'm really, really sorry. I hope I didn't ruin your birthday..."

She smiles, but she still doesn't look at me and my heart sinks. Something is obviously on her mind and she doesn't think she can tell me about it. The gap between us seems to be widening even more. As I think about it, I notice my fingers automatically tightening on her, as though I'm trying to grab her to me and cling to her so she can't run away.

"You're my best friend," I whisper. "You went to college and made all those new friends - and I went to college and I met people, but they're just people, Mary Anne. You're still my best friend. I haven't found anyone to replace you and I'm scared all those people you invited tonight are -"

She laughs softly and shakes her head. "You're my best friend too."

"I am?" I can't keep the relief out of my voice. I think to myself about how pathetic I've become. I wrap my arms around her from behind in an effort to reassure myself and I'm relieved when she leans against me.

"Everyone else grew apart," she says softly. "You and Dawn are really the only ones I still talk to..."

"You talk to the others," I say in surprise. "Claud says you invited her to your birthday."

"None of them came though, did they?" she asks with a smile, turning her head against my shoulder and looking up at me.

"I guess not." I frown. I'm not sure _why._ We're all still friendly. We're all still in touch, in some way or another. But we _have_ grown apart. Is that why I've been so desperate to keep hold of Mary Anne? Because I thought she and I were headed for the same sort of relationship I have with Claudia and Stacey? I'm friends with them, of course, and now and then we catch up for coffee or a beer on a Friday night... But then there are weeks where I barely even think about them.

I don't ever want to be like that with Mary Anne. She's been around for as long as I can remember. So has Claudia, but Claudia was always... outside. Claudia was different. Mary Anne and I just clicked. Opposites attract, I guess, and we're a good example of how well it can work. Aren't we?

"When did you become so needy?" she asks with a smile, looking up at me.

I grin at her, feeling embarrassed. "I dunno. When college started, I guess. I lost all that security."

"People aren't as easy to boss around in college, huh."

I give her a shove and she giggles and rests her back against my chest again before she turns her head and presses her lips softly against mine.

I pull back in alarm. "Mary Anne..."

She sighs and looks up at me tiredly, not sorry, but not disappointed that I pulled away, either.

After a moment's hesitation I kiss her back, just once, gently on the mouth

She rests her head against my shoulder. "I'm tired," she says. "I had too much to drink."

"Yeah..." I move backwards and she crawls up into the bed with me, throwing the towel out onto the floor once she's under the sheet.

I lie beside her, wanting to ask her about the kiss and if it meant anything or if it was just something she did impulsively because we're upset and she's had a bit to drink.

I reach over and turn the lamp off and suddenly we're in the dark. I can hear her breathing and I can feel the warmth of her body in the bed beside me. Somehow it seems safer with the lights out.

"Do you always kiss your friends when you've been drinking?" I ask after a moment.

"No," she answers quietly. "I don't really kiss anyone when I've been drinking. Logan, once, but you know how well that ended."

I find myself giggling as I remember the teary phone call Mary Anne made to me after she and Logan had failed to resist one another, yet again, at a party after a football game. _Why do I keep going back to him, Kristy? Why can't I leave him behind?_

_Because he's familiar, and because, maybe, you love him._

I smile to myself in the dark. I wish I'd remembered that earlier. Maybe it'd have calmed me down, listening to my own advice. Mary Anne might have changed on the surface, but she keeps returning to whatever is familiar, in some form or another.

Even if it is to an idiot like Logan. Or myself.

"You aren't mad, are you?" she asks after a moment. "I didn't really mean anything by it."

"No," I answer. "I don't mind."

She may not have meant anything by it. But it _did_ mean something to me, no matter how small.

I turn my head on the pillow and I can see the faint outline of her profile in the dark. Beside me.

Crisis over.


	2. Graveyard

**Title/Prompt:** Graveyard  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG  
**Word count:** 1745  
**Summary:** Mary Anne's not afraid of a dare - is she?

**Notes:** This is the youngest I've ever written the BSC girls. I usually like to set them a little older, or just write older canon characters - so this could be interesting! I've tried to keep it close to how the books read. It's set during the final chapters of _#17 Mary Anne's Bad Luck Mystery_.

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

* * *

I was smushed up against a grave, on Halloween, near midnight, under a full moon, wondering why on earth I had listened to Kristy and her latest Big Idea.

It was dark. The moon may have been full, but the trees around Old Hickory's grave were doing an awfully good job of keeping me and my friends in cold shadow. Not all the leaves had fallen yet, and the trees shivered and dripped with rainwater.

I knew my friends were within calling distance, but the clearing around Old Hickory's grave was wide and, no matter how hard I squinted, I couldn't force my eyes to see that far into the dark. I couldn't even see the white bed sheets hidden in the branches of the tree Kristy was sitting in, and I had been sure the moonlight would catch them easily.

I clutched my flashlight. The mask in my other hand was made of rubber and I could smell it on my skin already, though I'd only worn it for a moment to demonstrate to Kristy how spooky it was.

A sigh of wind swept through the clearing, causing raindrops to slip and patter from the leaves. The sound sent a chill up my spine. It sounded like hundreds of little pairs of feet, skittering and racing around me in the night. I squeezed my eyes closed and clutched my flashlight tighter, reminding myself that there was no such thing as ghosts... right?

I almost called out to Kristy. I almost wanted to call the whole thing off. Suddenly I didn't care about Cokie and her stupid friends. Suddenly all I wanted was to be curled up in bed with Tigger purring at my feet.

My knees were trembling and I was starting to get a cramp in my leg. I was also getting cold. I wondered how much longer I had to wait before Cokie and her friends showed up. The last time I looked at my watch it had been 11:32, and it felt like decades had dragged by since.

I risked another peek at my watch with my flashlight, and cringed. It was only 11:43.

I shivered and listened to another race of wind send more scattering footsteps around me. I could almost feel the ghosts pressing in on me from either side. I was going to lose it at any moment and burst into tears. I wasn't made for revenge.

The whisper came out of nowhere, close and questioning. "Mary Anne?"

I would have screamed, but I think I was too scared. Instead I just sort of... melted. My trembling knees finally gave out on me and the cramp in my leg meant I had no hope of saving myself. I landed in the dirt, clutching my flashlight and my Halloween mask, convinced I was going to die at the ghostly hands of Old Hickory.

"Mary Anne? Are you all right?"

It was Logan. Logan! I let out a quivery giggle of relief and he pulled me gently to my feet.

"I saw your flashlight come on," he whispered. "What's going on?"

"Who's there?" Kristy's authoritative voice range out.

"It's just Logan," I answered. I was relieved she hadn't used the signal that would have prompted our plan to go into action. We would have wasted it on Logan and probably scared him half to death. Kristy must have been expecting Cokie and Grace to make more noise than Logan did.

"What are you doing here?" I whispered. I held my flashlight and mask in one hand and kept an iron-grip on Logan's hand with the other. I think it was hurting him, but he didn't complain.

"I got a call," he said, sounding confused. "What's going on?"

I gripped his hand and heard him swallow tightly. I _must_ have been hurting him, but right then I didn't care. I was so relieved to have him there I couldn't bring myself to let go.

"Oh, it's so silly," I breathed. "I think -"

I was cut off by the sound of Kristy sending out a long, low whistle. The signal. In all the relief Logan had prompted, I hadn't noticed the giggling and whispering coming from the other side of the clearing, signalling Cokie's approach.

I fumbled around in the dark and managed to hit the right button on the tape deck at my feet. Kristy's Halloween tape started blaring across the clearing, ghostly howls and roars filling the night. Over the noise, I heard Grace scream.

"Mary Anne?" Logan asked, sounding confused and a little worried.

"I'll explain later," I promised, finally letting go of his hand. I pulled my mask on over my head, trying to hold my breath against its rubbery smell, and made sure my flashlight caught the horrible lumps and bumps of it as I stumbled out from my hiding place.

Kristy and Dawn had sent their 'ghosts' spinning down the twine. Cokie and her friends were huddled in a patch of moonlight by Old Hickory's grave, screaming loudly. The clearing was full of bouncing flashlight beams and screaming teenage girls.

Finally, Claudia stopped the tape and we pulled off our masks.

"You!" Cokie snarled, pointing at me. Her hand was shaking and I couldn't help but feel a little smug about it.

"We just beat you to the punch," Kristy said airily, lifting her mask up and leaving it perched on top of her head like a misshapen hat.

"What's going on?" Logan asked, stepping forward to stand beside me. "Who called me tonight?"

Kristy shot me a look, but I matched it and defended myself instantly. "Not me," I said.

"I know it wasn't _you_," Logan said, squeezing my hand.

In the dark, my face flamed red at the thought of him being able to recognise my voice on the phone. I was suddenly grateful for the shadows sent forth by the trees around Old Hickory's grave.

Cokie had her arms crossed and was glaring around at all of us. I could tell she wasn't about to give out any answers.

Kristy seemed to think the same thing. "We're not leaving until we get answers," she ordered. She settled a glare onto Grace and refused to budge it.

Grace glanced at Cokie and fidgeted slightly before giving a sigh of defeat. "Fine," she muttered.

"Grace, shut up!" Cokie snapped.

Grace glared at her. "I don't want to spend all night here!"

Even in the shadowy moonlight, I could see the glee on Kristy's face. She _loved_ to win.

"We were going to scare Mary Anne," Grace said sullenly. "We wanted Logan to - we, we wanted everyone to know what a baby she is."

I felt my cheeks burning again, though it wasn't from pleasure this time. Logan gave my hand another gentle squeeze.

Grace continued. "We called Logan earlier and told him to come to Old Hickory's grave at midnight. We thought if he saw Mary Anne crying at -"

"Grace, shut _up_," Cokie hissed angrily.

I kept my gaze focused on the ground in front of me. My face felt hot and I was sure it was beet red. I wished I could disappear.

Dawn flipped her hair over her shoulder in disgust. "You guys are cowards," she said. "And I'm not just talking about tonight. What you wanted to do to Mary Anne was incredibly cowardly."

Cokie looked furious, but she was outnumbered. She gritted her teeth and spoke stiffly to her friends. "Let's go," she said.

"Yeah," Kristy scoffed. "Don't worry. We'll see you at school on Monday."

Cokie's back stiffened, and I could tell she wanted to stay and argue for a moment, but Grace tugged furiously on her sleeve. They disappeared into the dark.

"So - that's it?" Logan asked in confusion. "You guys all hid here in the dark to scare Cokie and her friends before she arrived to scare _you_?"

"Uh, duh," Claudia answered.

"Um, I'll meet you guys at the car in a minute," I said, pushing my flashlight and mask into Dawn's hands. "I'll explain everything to Logan and he can walk me to the gate."

"Do you need a ride, Bruno?" Kristy asked bluntly. "There's no room. Mary Anne will have to sit in your lap."

Mallory and Jessi erupted into giggles and I was certain Logan's face had gone red.

"I have my bike," he muttered.

"Okay. We'll meet you back at the car, Mary Anne. Bye, Logan."

"Bye," he answered, still sounding embarrassed.

My friends all left, carting flashlights and masks and the rest of the supplies we'd brought with us.

Suddenly I wasn't sure how to explain the night without it sounding ridiculous. It had all seemed so _serious_ before. I had been convinced I was cursed, and that ghosts and monsters were going to sneak up and wrap their hands around my throat.

I shivered at the memory of it.

"Are you cold?" Logan asked. "Do you want my coat?"

"No," I answered. "Thanks. I'm okay." I dug the toe of my sneaker into the ground. I wondered if he thought I was a baby, even if Cokie's plan hadn't come to fruition.

"Don't worry about Cokie," Logan said after a moment. "I don't."

I felt a bit of the anxiety lift away from me. I gave him a shy smile. "I try not to."

"I know." He reached for me, and then thought better of it and shoved his hands in his pockets.

I cursed Kristy for making him so self-conscious.

"It was Kristy's idea," I said, motioning around the clearing.

"It was pretty scary," Logan said, grinning. "I'm glad I didn't set it off when I arrived."

I giggled. "Me too."

After a moment he took his hands out of his pockets again, and took hold of my fingers. "Want me to walk you to the gate?"

"Uh-huh." I smiled at him, but tugged gently at him, causing him to stop. My next words tumbled out in a rush. "Do you think I'm a baby?"

"You came to a graveyard, at midnight, on Halloween, under a full moon," Logan said. "You're definitely not a baby."

I laughed, and he leaned over and kissed my cheek affectionately.

I think we both went red, but it was still dark, and nobody could see us but the ghosts.


	3. Neighbour

**Title/Prompt:** Neighbour  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG | adult themes  
**Word count:** 7149  
**Summary:** Seventeen-year-old Stacey develops a crush on her neighbour and fights to shake it off.

**Notes:** This came out of nowhere, but I'm pretty happy with it. The neighbour is John Pike (Mallory's dad) - if thoughts about this pairing are likely to squick you, be warned! (It's all talk and teenage crushes, nothing actually happens, but the idea is still there.)

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

* * *

Stacey is stretched out on her stomach, a pen between her teeth as she flips through her math book with a frown on her face. A half-eaten sandwich is on a plate beside her, and she distractedly swaps the pen for a bite of whole-wheat pita, turkey and salad. Rain patters steadily against her bedroom window.

Through the tangled maze of concentration in her mind, built mostly of derivatives and functions at that particular moment, she hears the front door open and close. She checks her watch almost dreamily, figuring it must be her mother home early, before she flips another page of the text book in front of her, fitting her pen back between her teeth.

"Stacey?"

Stacey jumps, and the pen in her mouth clicks against her teeth as she clenches down on it. She drops it onto her bed. "Hi." She sits up, looking at Mallory Pike with a mixture of surprise and wariness. "Are you okay?"

Mallory tugs her knit-cap off her head and tosses it onto Stacey's desk, which is already covered with clothing. Then she jams her fingers into the pockets of her jeans, looking a little embarrassed, and Stacey suddenly realises how breathless and pale Mallory is, like she's run over without really thinking about it.

"What's wrong?" Stacey asks, her eyes wide. She shoves her math book to the floor and motions for Mallory to sit down. "I didn't think you were coming back to Stoneybrook until Christmas."

"I'm just back for the weekend." Mallory sits next to her, her shoulders hunched. She's taller than Stacey remembers, though it hasn't been _that_ long since they've seen each other. The fifteen-year-old Mallory Pike is taller than the seventeen-year-old Stacey McGill, and neither of them like it much. At fifteen, Mallory still looks like she has a lot of filling out to do. At seventeen, Stacey looks like she's in her final year of college, not high school.

Mallory fidgets. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she says after a moment. Her voice is weak and she sounds close to tears.

Stacey's worry increases tenfold. "Mallory, what's happened?" she asks, using an authoritative voice she usually saves for babysitting.

"Nothing bad, really," Mallory says, giving Stacey a quick glance that looks guilty and upset. "I'm not sure I'm supposed to tell you. I don't know why I got so upset over it, anyway." She bends her head and looks down at her knees.

Stacey folds her arms across her chest and leans forward a little so she can see past the wild tangle of curls hiding Mallory's face. The rain has sent it into spirals. "What's happened?" she asks again, and she's gentle this time.

Mallory's fingers twist together. "Mom's pregnant," she mutters. She looks up at Stacey and suddenly she looks furious. "I mean," she snaps, "as if eight kids aren't enough. As if they're not already struggling to pay for everything. Claire's nine, for fuck's sake - this was obviously an accident."

Stacey looks at her in alarm, but Mallory continues, her rant gathering steam. "Mom's been in tears all week, apparently, and Dad's just about beside himself. I can't believe they were stupid enough to let this happen."

"Mal," Stacey says patiently, interrupting as Mallory pauses for breath, "It's not the end of the world, right? These things happen."

Mallory shoots her a look that speaks of treachery. "You don't get it," she says, suddenly tearful. "This changes _everything._" She starts sobbing noisily, and Stacey puts her arm around Mallory's pointed shoulders.

She wonders why Mallory isn't more excited. Hearing the news of Mrs Pike's pregnancy sent a ripple of happiness up Stacey's spine. As if to answer Stacey's own question, Mallory's voice muffles its way out from behind her hands.

"I've been hormonal all week."

"Oh," Stacey says sympathetically.

Mallory starts to cry again. "But what'll happen?" she asks, turning towards Stacey, her face pale and tear-streaked. "Seriously, Stacey, Mom and Dad fight about money more than anything else. A new baby will only make things worse. And it'll be so much younger than Claire. It'll be alone..."

Stacey gives a small laugh. "Alone, in the Pike household? I'm pretty sure that's impossible. Didn't you go on strike once just to get some peace and -"

"That's not the point," Mallory snaps, though she doesn't offer to clear up what the point is, exactly. Stacey sits quietly at her side, patting her back now and then.

Finally, Mallory gives one last sniffle and straightens up. Her eyes are puffy and red. "I should go back and apologise," she says softly, looking a little embarrassed. "I sort of - I sort of left in a hurry." She looks down at her hands again. "They told me they wanted me home this weekend because they had something to tell us all... Everyone else seemed pretty excited about it." She wipes her eyes. "Mom and Dad both seem pretty worried, though. I mean -"

"I'm sure they can handle it," Stacey says calmly, interrupting before Mallory's inner narrator seizes control again. "It's pretty exciting, really," she adds. "Another little brother or sister."

"Yeah, great," Mallory mutters, but Stacey sees the hint of a smile playing around her mouth, and she knows the worst is over - for now.

"It'll be okay," she promises, patting Mallory's back.

"Yeah." Mallory sighs and wipes her eyes on her sleeve. "Sorry I interrupted you." She glances around at the piles of textbooks on Stacey's floor.

"It's okay," Stacey says. "It was only homework. Mom's out grocery shopping but she mentioned seeing a movie later - want to come along?"

Mallory gives her a watery smile and shakes her head, getting to her feet. "No thanks. I'll see you tomorrow, though. When I've calmed down..." She gives Stacey a sheepish look, and Stacey grins.

"You look okay now."

Mallory nods and took her knit-cap from the pile of clothes on Stacey's desk. "Could you not tell anyone?" she asks painfully, turning to face Stacey again. "I'm pretty sure it's still a secret."

Stacey swipes an X over her heart. "I won't."

Mallory smiles and pulls Stacey's bedroom door closed behind her. Stacey moves to the window and peers down into the yard, watching Mallory trudge through the misty rain and the mud to her own back porch. Mr. Pike greets her with a gentle smile, holding one arm up. Stacey watches as Mallory huddles into a hug with her father.

She tilts her head, looking down at them - looking, in particular, at Mr. Pike. He hasn't changed much since she first met him. A few grey hairs, maybe, but he's still in his late thirties and Stacey suddenly realises she thinks he looks pretty good for his age.

_No wonder Mrs Pike is pregnant again_, she thinks. She grins and picks her math book up off the floor.

* * *

Stacey shivers and picks her way carefully across the yard, trying her best to stick to the slippery clumps of grass between the muddy puddles. It's dark, and frost is in the air. Behind her, the glow from the kitchen window spills out and lights up the path to the trash cans against the fence. Stacey clutches the bag tightly in one fist and holds the other arm out for balance as she trots her way from one piece of firm ground to the next.

"Evening, Stacey."

The cheerful voice almost makes her slip, and she spends a moment teetering on the edge of a particularly mushy part of the lawn before she looks up. Mr. Pike is standing on the other side of the fence, holding the lid of a trash can in one hand and a full bag of trash in the other. He looks rather amused, and she knows he must have been standing there, watching her wobbly dance across the lawn.

"Hi," she says, embarrassed.

He smiles at her and drops the trash in the can before fitting the lid on firmly. Stacey takes the final few steps to her own trash can and does the same.

"Has Mallory gone back to Riverbend?"

"She went back last night." Mr. Pike seems on the verge of saying something else, but stops and purses his lips.

"She told me," Stacey says nervously. She gives him a small smile. "Congratulations."

He gives a small laugh. "I thought so. Thank you." His smile widens and Stacey realises how happy he is about it.

She relaxes and smiles back at him. "When is it due?" she asks curiously.

"June, we think."

"And Mrs Pike is well? No morning sickness?"

"She's okay." Mr. Pike gives her a gentle smile and Stacey feels her cheeks burning red again. She wonders if she's displaying too much curiosity.

"That's good," she says. Suddenly she feels like a twelve-year-old.

"How's school?" Mr. Pike asks, his hands in his pockets.

"Fine," Stacey answers. "I'm finding it easier this year. Eleventh grade was sort of terrible."

"Senior year isn't so bad," Mr. Pike says cheerfully. "I had lots of fun in senior year. College, too."

Stacey grins at him, suddenly imagining a seventeen-year-old John Pike. A shiver, entirely unrelated to the cold, runs up her spine.

"It's cold out here," he says, noticing. "You should go in." He gives her a wide grin, and even in the dark she spots a dimple she isn't sure she's ever noticed before. "Go to the right this time, and you won't have to jump that big mud patch."

Her cheeks burn. "Right," she answers.

He laughs and bids her goodnight, and for a moment she watches him stride away towards the glow of his own kitchen, back to his children and his pregnant wife. She feels an insane stab of jealousy, and hurries back inside, embarrassed, guilty and confused.

* * *

"Are you okay?"

Stacey looks up from her salad and meets Mary Anne's eyes. "Fine," she answers.

Mary Anne looks unsure. "You've been really quiet all week," she says.

Stacey stabs a cherry tomato with her fork. "It's embarrassing," she admits after a moment, still wrestling with her thoughts and attempting to pin down what it is, exactly, that's bothering her.

Mary Anne watches her carefully, but doesn't say anything, and Stacey leans forward. Then she changes her mind and leans back again, dropping her fork.

"Eat," Mary Anne says sternly, in a voice scarily-reminiscent of Stacey's mother.

Stacey picks her fork up again and stares down at her food. "Have you ever had a crush on someone you really shouldn't have a crush on?" she mumbles after a minute. "Not like... I mean..." She chews her lip and sneaks a glance at Mary Anne, who looks slightly amused.

"Is that all?" she asks. "Hasn't everyone had a crush on someone they're not supposed to?"

Stacey briefly wonders who Mary Anne's forbidden crush had been, but pushes it out of her mind. "This is different," she says painfully. "This is stupid."

Mary Anne looks stern all of a sudden. "Is Claudia going to be in this story?"

"No!" Stacey says, her blue eyes widening."No, this doesn't have anything to do with Claudia or her boyfriend..."

"Good," Mary Anne says, looking relieved. "Who is it, then?" Her smile fades a little. "Is it Logan? Because I don't really care if it is, but it'd be really weird..." She trails off uncertainly.

In an attempt to stop the guessing game, Stacey leans forward again, her cheeks burning. "It's Mr. Pike," she whispers, sounding mortified.

Mary Anne doesn't laugh, and Stacey is incredibly grateful. She does, however, look amused. "Mr. Pike?" she asks. "Mallory's dad?"

"What other Mr. Pike am I going to be talking about?" Stacey hisses. She drops her fork and runs her hand through her hair. "I don't know why," she mutters.

"Ooh!" Mary Anne leans forward suddenly, her eyes alight. "I heard Mrs Pike's pregnant again! I'm not sure if it's true -"

"It is," Stacey answers. "Mallory told me a couple of weeks ago. I promised not to tell anyone."

Mary Anne looks only slightly put-out as her exciting item of rumour is confirmed so quickly. "I can't believe they're having another baby!" she says. She gives a happy sigh, and then realises where the conversation was before she interrupted. "Mr. Pike?" she asks again. "I wouldn't worry about it, Stacey. It's just a crush. I think all the members of the BSC have had a crush on him at some point.

"Except Mallory," Stacey says hopefully.

Mary Anne giggles. "Except Mallory."

Stacey feels a sweep of relief. "Really?" she asks. "You too?"

"Once or twice." Mary Anne's cheeks are a delicate shade of pink.

"Oh," Stacey breathes, suddenly feeling less ridiculous. She gives Mary Anne a small grin. "Well, it started when Mallory told me Mrs Pike was pregnant again, you know..." She drops her voice and leans even further across the table. "Obviously they're still _doing it._"

Mary Anne's face turns bright crimson, and Stacey laughs. She finally feels hungry enough to eat.

"He must be good at it," she says thoughtfully, chewing her cherry tomato. "Sex, I mean."

"Stacey..." Mary Anne gives a nervous giggle and shakes her head, her cheeks still bright red.

"And he _is_ good looking," Stacey continues, stabbing a narrow stick of carrot with her fork. "I don't know why I never really noticed it before. He's always just been Mr. Pike, Mallory's dad. Mr. Pike, the neighbour."

He still _is_ those things," Mary Anne points out. She looks nervous all of a sudden. "It is just a crush, right, Stacey? I mean..."

"What do you think I'm going to do?" Stacey snorts. "Break up their marriage? As if." She shakes her head. "Come on, Mary Anne."

Mary Anne gives a sheepish smile and shrugs.

* * *

Stacey is walking home from school when Mrs Pike calls out to her. Stacey smiles and waves.

"Are you busy?" Mrs Pike asks anxiously. "I need a last-minute sitter for Claire."

"No problem," Stacey answers. "Congratulations on the baby, by the way, Mrs Pike."

Mrs Pike smiles at her. "Thank you."

Stacey enters the warmth of the Pikes' living room and looks around. She doesn't visit as often as she used to - Claire and Margo are the only ones Mr. and Mrs Pike still seek a sitter for, and the other kids are all old enough to look after them most of the time. The house doesn't seem to have changed much - it's a little tidier, perhaps, without the triplets' toys scattered around.

"Where is everyone?" Stacey asks, pulling her scarf away from her neck.

"The triplets are all spending the night at Scotty Danby's," Mrs Pike answers rather distractedly, looking for her car keys. "It's his birthday. So you won't need to worry about them. Nicky insisted on having a sleepover as well, so he's spending the night over at the Thomas-Brewer household."

"Are he and David Michael friends?" Stacey asks in surprise.

Mrs Pike smiles. "Apparently so. They play on the same baseball team and they like to swap baseball cards, when they can..."

Stacey feels a little foolish about acting so surprised. "And Vanessa and Margo?"

A dark expression fleets momentarily across Mrs Pike's face. "I'm going to get them now," she answers, finally locating her car keys. "Mallory tells me they've both turned up in Riverbend, having left school and taken the train this morning." She shakes her head, looking both angry and tired at the same time. "They're not... They're not taking the news well." She touches a light hand to her stomach, and then to her forehead, as though she has a headache.

"I thought they'd be excited," Stacey answers worriedly.

Mrs Pike shrugs and gives her a tired smile. "Claire is in her bedroom. She's - she's rather upset." She sends a worried glance upstairs. "John will probably beat me home, but he knows where I'm going. Call his office if you have any trouble. Or Mrs Brewer, or -"

I know what to do," Stacey assures her. "Don't worry about it."

Mrs Pike flashes her a relieved smile, and then calls upstairs. "Claire? I'm leaving now! Stacey's here..."

There is no answer.

"It's okay," Stacey says. "Go ahead. I'll see you later."

Mrs Pike hurries out the door and Stacey heads upstairs, pausing momentarily outside Mr. and Mrs Pike's bedroom. The bed is wide and neatly-made and an odd feeling grabs hold of Stacey's stomach as she looks at it. She scowls, the now-familiar feelings of ridiculousness and embarrassment flooding her from head to toe.

_You'll go back to normal soon,_ she promises herself. _It's just a stupid crush, and all because you keep imagining him having sex._

She forces the scowl off her face as she knocks gently on the closed door to Claire's bedroom.

"Claire?"

"Go away!" The voice is strangely muffled.

"Your mom's gone," Stacey says patiently. "Come down and have a snack with me. I haven't seen you for ages..." She pauses for a moment, listening. "Is it true you've grown a foot and a half in the past month?" She hears a stifled giggle, and grins.

The door swings open and nine-year-old Claire Pike stands in front of her, tear-streaked and tired. "No," Claire says. "Half an inch."

"Half an inch is still pretty good," Stacey answers, giving her a smile. "Come and have a snack."

"Is mom really gone?" Claire asks.

"Uh-huh. Did you have a fight?" Stacey leads the way downstairs.

"Sort of," Claire answers. "I yelled at her."

"Why?"

Claire throws herself into a chair at the end of the table and rests her head in her hands, looking miserable, but rather melodramatic. "Because she's having a baby," she says.

"You shouldn't yell at her for that," Stacey answers, opening the fridge.

"Mallory did," Claire answers, as though that explains everything. She scowls, and sounds rather tearful when she speaks again. "Vanessa and Margo ran away."

"Well, your mom has gone to bring them back," Stacey says comfortingly, pouring two glasses of juice.

"They didn't ask me to go!" Claire wails, bursting into noisy tears. "They j-just ran away and l-left me here!" She buries her face in her arms.

"Oh, Claire..." Stacey sits down beside her and takes one small hand into her own. "It's okay."

"No it's n-not!" Claire sobs. "They hardly t-talk to me at all, because now they g-go to the s-same stupid school..." The last word trails off into a moan and she hiccups and sobs against the surface of the table.

Stacey glances around the kitchen worriedly, as though she might be able to find something on the counter that could help the situation. "It's okay, Claire," she says eventually. "I'm sure they would have invited you, too."

Claire frowns and rubs her eyes. "No they wouldn't," she answers, but she doesn't say anything else. Stacey shifts a glass of juice towards her and Claire takes a couple of hasty gulps. "I hate being the youngest," she hiccups after a moment.

"Well you won't be, in a few months," Stacey answers. This is obviously the wrong thing to say, because Claire shoots her a look of anger.

"It's all Dad's fault," she says, sniffling quietly. "I heard the triplets talking about it. They think it's funny."

Stacey can imagine the triplets sniggering and laughing about the new situation the Pikes have found themselves in. "It's not your dad's fault," she says gently. "These things happen, Claire."

"It's not fair," Claire says darkly, glowering at her half-empty glass. "I hate this family."

"No you don't," Stacey answers cheerfully. "It's just a little bit hard for you all, at the moment. Don't forget your mom and dad are both worried, too."

"I don't care," Claire says stubbornly, folding her arms over her chest.

"Well, it's just you and me for a while," Stacey says, changing the subject. "Want to play a game?"

Claire shakes her head.

"Do you have any homework?"

Claire sighs and drags herself away from the table. "Uh-huh."

"Do you need help?"

She shakes her head and trudges upstairs. Stacey decides to give her time alone. She sits on the couch and watches TV for a while, keeping an ear out for any movement upstairs. When she goes up to check on Claire, she is stretched out on top of her bed, sleeping.

Stacey is debating on whether or not to let her continue when she hears the front door open and close.

"Hello?"

She hurries to the top of the stairs and smiles at Mr. Pike, suddenly feeling awkward and shy. "Hi, Mr. Pike."

"Stacey." He smiles at her and empties his pockets, dropping his keys and wallet onto the table by the door. "I take it Mrs Pike hasn't returned with our jail-breakers yet."

"Not yet." She clings to the banister as she makes her way downstairs, towards him, willing herself to simply look at him as plain old Mr. Pike, the next door neighbour.

It's no good. Since learning of Mrs Pike's pregnancy, her view of him has shifted, and she can't figure out exactly why. Suddenly she notices the shape of his body and the gentle slope of his shoulders, the lines around his eyes that crinkle up when he smiles and the long-fingered hands that are currently offering her a diet soda.

She takes the bottle silently and he grins at her again, the dimple in his cheek crimping. "Claire okay?"

"She cried for a while," Stacey admits.

Mr. Pike's smile falls a little, and he nods. "It'll take time to adjust to everything," he says, more to himself than to Stacey.

"I think it was mostly because Vanessa and Margo ran away and didn't stop by SES for her," Stacey says.

Mr. Pike chuckles and sits at the kitchen table. After a moment, Stacey sits opposite him.

"How's school?" he asks.

"Okay. I'm studying calculus." She takes a sip of her soda and notices the way he looks a little admiring as she explains her way through her complicated math homework. Eventually, she stops and goes red, but he doesn't seem to mind her rambling.

"I always liked math," he says after a while. "I was never any good at it, though."

She laughs, and hopes she doesn't sound overly fawning or lovesick. She hopes he hasn't noticed the way she's staring at him, or the way she sometimes snaps to attention and frowns as she inwardly scolds herself for being so stupid and developing a crush on him in the first place.

Eventually, she notices the time, and she drains the rest of her soda quickly. "I should go," she says, realising she sounds a little reluctant. "I'm supposed to get dinner started."

"Sure," Mr. Pike answers, walking with her to the front door. "How much do we owe you, Stacey?"

"Oh," she says in alarm. "Oh, no, don't worry about it. I mean, it was only Claire and she spent the whole time sleeping -"

"Don't be silly," Mr. Pike says, pushing crisp bills into her hand. "Thank you."

Her skin fires up where he touched her, and she can feel her cheeks going red. "Anytime," she says. "Really."

* * *

Knowing that Mary Anne won't laugh at her or spill her mortifying secret to anyone else, Stacey finds herself confiding everything to her.

"I've started to dream about him," she moans, her arm across her eyes. Her legs are propped up against Mary Anne's pillows, and rain is lashing at the windows.

"What sort of dreams?" Mary Anne asks.

Stacey looks at her with raised eyebrows. "There's not much _talking_ in them, if you get my drift."

"Stacey!" Mary Anne looks scandalised, and her cheeks turn red, as they so often do these days when she's talking to Stacey.

"I know!" Stacey cries, pressing the heels of her hands over her eyes. "But I can't help it! He lives right next door and I see him almost every day! Even if it's just for a couple of minutes. And he always talks to me, you know, asking me about school and all that..." She wrinkles her nose and rolls onto her stomach. "Don't look at me like that," she pleads, noticing the rather stern look on Mary Anne's face. "I know it's stupid. But it's not like I'd _ever_ admit anything to him, or do anything about it."

"I know," Mary Anne answers immediately, giving her a small smile. "Mallory would kill you."

Stacey gives a giggle and shakes her head. "I know. But it'd be worse if _he_ found out, you know? It'd be so embarrassing. I can barely look him in the eye now..." She gives a dreamy sigh. "He has really nice eyes."

"He does," Mary Anne agrees.

Stacey traces the pattern on Mary Anne's bedspread with her finger. "What should I do?" she asks. "I think maybe I'd be less infatuated with him if I had a boyfriend. Do you think I should ask someone out?"

"Who?" Mary Anne asks. "Do you like anyone?"

"No," Stacey admits.

"Then don't," Mary Anne answers. "You might just hurt someone's feelings."

"Yeah, okay," Stacey answers, dropping the idea immediately. She changes the subject. "Mallory comes home tomorrow."

"She does?"

"Uh-huh. She's grown like a teenage boy - all straight and awkward."

Mary Anne laughs. "She has, a bit. Don't tease her about it though."

Stacey shakes her head. "I won't. Do you want to come over tomorrow? If she's still upset about Mrs Pike being pregnant it might be good to have you there. You always know what to say."

Mary Anne smiles and rolls her eyes. "Okay. I'll stop by after lunch."

Stacey peers out the window, which is covered with glittering rain drops. The sun is showing through the cloud, weak and watery.

"I think I'll make a run for it while the sun's out," she says. "See you tomorrow."

She's only just reached the end of the block before the rain starts pouring down again. She swears and holds her jacket over her head, wondering if she should run back to Mary Anne's, or just keep going in the hope of it being a brief shower. Each drop is icy and heavy.

Just as she decides to make a run for it back to Mary Anne's, a car slows in the street and the passenger door is thrown open. Stacey's heart thumps painfully as she realises it's Mr. Pike.

"Need a lift?"

She throws herself into the passenger seat and hastily sets about rearranging her jacket. "Hi, Mr. Pike," she says breathlessly. Lately, in her head, she has been calling him John, and she hopes he doesn't notice the brief stutter before she says _Mr. Pike._

"Thanks for picking me up." She combs her fingers through her damp hair. If her mother was driving, she'd take hold of the rear-vision mirror to check the damage to her carefully-styled curls. In Mr. Pike's car, she folds her hands into her lap and prays that her hair doesn't go too wiry and fly-away.

"Are you headed home?" he asks, waving away her thanks. "Or are you headed to Mary Anne's?"

"Home." She sneaks a glance sideways at him, through her lashes, and thinks he looks thin and pale. She wonders if it's the stress of Mrs Pike's pregnancy, or if it's just her imagination.

"How is Mary Anne?" Mr. Pike asks, putting the car back into gear. "I haven't seen her for a long time."

"She's okay. Busy. School... you know."

He grins. "Senior year."

She grins back. "Yeah." She suddenly notices he's gone past Slate Street. "Oh," she says, "I could have just cut through your yard."

"It's raining," he says. "I'll take you to the door."

"Okay. Thanks." She notices the way her voice shakes and she curses her over-active imagination, which is suddenly full of extremely unlikely scenarios, all involving the backseat.

"Doing anything special for Christmas?" he asks.

"No. Just Mom and I."

"Not spending any time with your dad?"

"Not this year." She looks out the window at the raindrops sliding down the glass, and for some reason starts babbling. "He asked me, but I can't. It's easier if I _don't_ see him. Does that make me sound awful? It just seems like I can't see him without having an argument with him, or without prompting him to have an argument with Mom. We're more polite to one another when there's distance between us. I don't want to fight over Christmas..."

Mr. Pike looks a little taken aback, but quickly masks it. "It doesn't make you sound awful," he says. "It must be hard for you."

"It is." Her heart warms a little and the tears that were suddenly burning behind her eyes fade away. "What about you guys? How are you spending Christmas?"

"Just at home," he answers, slowing as they approach the intersection into Elm Street. The car pulls to a gentle halt and Stacey watches him shift the gear stick into neutral. His long fingers curl around it gently as he waits for a chance to turn. "We're just having a quiet Christmas," he says. There's a pause before he adds, "As quiet as it can be, at our house."

Stacey laughs and leans back into the seat. "How's Claire?" she asks after a moment.

"She's okay. I think she'd be excited if Mallory hadn't reacted so negatively. It's a big change for everyone." He shifts slightly and drums his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting as a silver car sluices its way through the waterlogged intersection.

Stacey hopes she hasn't made him uncomfortable. "They'll get more excited as time goes on," she says.

He smiles. "Hope so."

"Are _you_ excited?" she asks daringly, a small, teasing smile on her face.

He smiles back at her. "Very excited. So long as it's not another set of triplets."

She laughs and he grins and eases the car forward again into the driving rain.

He pulls into the driveway and she thanks him and fumbles with her seatbelt like a child, her face burning.

"Bye," she blurts eventually, almost falling out into the rain.

"Bye, Stacey."

She hurries to the front door, but takes the time to look back over her shoulder as Mr. Pike reverses the car out of the driveway, his fingers splaying against the steering wheel as he turns it. He doesn't look back at her, but she remembers the way her name sounded when he said goodbye, and her heart thuds painfully.

When she gets inside she sits on the bottom stair and cries.

* * *

Stacey barely lifts her head from her pillow as she hears the gentle knock at her bedroom door. Instead, she curls into a ball, feeling very sorry for herself.

"Stacey? Your mom says you're not well..."

Stacey sits up immediately. "Mary Anne! I forgot you were coming."

"I can go," Mary Anne says, running her eyes over Stacey carefully. "Are you all right?"

"Close the door," Stacey whispers.

Mary Anne's eyes widen and she closes the door and sits down on the edge of Stacey's bed, looking worried. "What is it?" she asks, her voice also a whisper.

Stacey rubs her hands over her face, feeling the evidence of tears on her skin. "Don't laugh at me."

"I won't," Mary Anne promises softly.

"It's Mr. Pike," Stacey croaks. "Mary Anne, I _can't stop thinking about him._ I don't know why..." Her voice cracks and she looks away, staring down at her knees, still buried beneath her blankets. "I know it's stupid and I know I'd never, ever, ever have a chance with him... And I can't stop crying about it." She wraps her arms around her knees and hides her face.

"Oh, Stacey," Mary Anne says sympathetically. "It'll pass. Right?"

"But it _hurts_," Stacey weeps. "I know it's stupid, but my heart beats so fast whenever he looks at me, and I dream about him and I imagine what it would be like if he took notice of me like I take notice of him..." She trails away miserably and feels hot guilt flood through her.

Mary Anne shifts up beside her and puts one arm carefully around Stacey's shoulders. "It'll be okay," she says. "You've had crushes on other guys before."

"But this is different," Stacey insists.

"Why?" Mary Anne asks.

Stacey opens her mouth and then closes it again. "It just is," she says. "I can't explain it. He sends me all shivery. Besides..." She glances around nervously, as though checking for eavesdroppers. She drops her voice to a low whisper. "You're a virgin, right?"

Mary Anne withdraws a little. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing," Stacey says. "It's just that - it's just that I'm not, and I can't stop imagining how it would feel if I was with him -"

"Stacey," Mary Anne says sharply, "this is getting out of control. Mallory will be here soon, and if she sees you like this, she'll want to know what's wrong."

Stacey winces, and nods. "I know."

Mary Anne's voice is gentle again. "Go and take a shower," she says. "It'll make you feel better. If Mallory arrives, I'll tell her you're just feeling a bit under the weather.

"A bit," Stacey says, cracking a small smile. "Thanks."

The obsession won't let go of her. She's tried to shake it off; she's tried to starve it - but so often she looks out the window and sees him in the yard, throwing a football with Nicky or ordering one of the triplets down from the apple tree. Just when she thinks she's got him out of her mind, he appears in front of her as though to taunt her further.

In the shower, she runs soap over her body and lets her fingers trace patterns where she wished _he_ would touch her. She blinks back tears as she realises how pathetic she feels about it all, and how silly it all is.

Mallory and Mary Anne are waiting for her. Mary Anne has made the bed and is sitting on the end of it. Mallory is in the desk chair.

She grins at Stacey, who is wrapped in a bath sheet. "Hi."

"Hi," Stacey answers, trying to sound cheerful. "How's Riverbend?"

"I'm glad to be out of there for a bit," Mallory answers."Though it feels like I've left one zoo and entered another. Claire may not believe in Santa anymore, but she sure gets excited at Christmas time."

Stacey chuckles, and Mallory and Mary Anne both turn their backs as she starts to dress.

"Have you seen Jessi?" Mary Anne asks.

"She's in Oakley until Christmas Eve. I'll see her before I have to go back to school. What's new with you guys?"

Stacey stretches out on her bed with damp hair, fully dressed. "Nothing much," she answers. "How's everyone adjusted to your mom being pregnant?"

Mallory sighs and fidgets a little. "I dunno. Up and down, I guess. Vanessa says Mom and Dad have been bickering a bit. She wants to go to work full time and he doesn't want her to."

Stacey's heart thumps with a flare of hope, and she hates herself. She forces the images of divorce and hurt and comfort out of her head. "It'll be okay," she says.

Mary Anne picks up Stacey's comb and starts to run it through the damp tresses. "That's what I said," she says cheerfully, and she gives Stacey's shoulder a comforting squeeze.

* * *

Stacey meets Mr. Pike at the trash cans again on Christmas Day.

"Merry Christmas," he says, beaming at her.

"Merry Christmas," she echoes, offering him a smile in return.

"Get anything good?" he asks.

"Um..." She thinks for a moment. "A new curling iron."

He tilts his head. "But your hair's already curly."

She laughs and wedges the lid back on the trashcan. "What about you? Good haul this year?"

"Lots of socks," Mr. Pike says.

"Is that good or bad?"

"Good, I think."

Stacey smiles again, but her heart is beating painfully in her chest, and it's warring with her brain, which is screaming at her to stop feeling so stupidly infatuated.

"Why don't you and your mom come over?" he asks. "Dee's making gingerbread."

"I probably won't be able to eat it," Stacey says painfully.

"We'll find something for you. I think we've got some of that hot chocolate your mom buys."

"Really?" Stacey asks. "Won't we be in the way?"

"We've got to get used to having more people in the house," he says seriously. "Come over."

"I'll go and ask Mom." She smiles at him and picks her way back across the icy yard - keeping to the right to avoid the mud patch.

She has to avoid the temptation to hurry her mother up. Just as they're ready to leave, Stacey rushes upstairs again to apply another layer of mascara - and at the same time, she grumbles at herself in the mirror for carrying on the way she is.

The Pikes' living room is crowded and warm. They roar a general greeting of _Merry Christmas_ before turning back to the gifts they are all absorbed in. Mallory picks her way over to Stacey through the scatterings of wrapping paper, which has been on the carpet since that morning.

"Merry Christmas," she says, grinning.

"Merry Christmas," Stacey echoes. "Get any good presents?"

"Vanessa was my Secret Santa this year," Mallory says happily. "She bought me a new journal."

"Nice," Stacey says, sensing she is supposed to approve.

Mallory lowers her voice and gives a breathless giggle. "The triplets wanted me to buy condoms for Dad."

Stacey snorts and covers her mouth. "What?"

Mallory wrinkles her nose. "They thought it was hilarious. I refused. I mean - I mean, ew!" She buries her face in her hands and Stacey starts to laugh again, though a gentle flush rises up her face, and her spine is tingling.

"I'd better go and see if Mom needs help," Mallory says, finally gaining control and shoving the thought of her parents having sex far from her mind.

"I'll come," Stacey offers.

Stacey's mother is sitting at the table with a mug of hot chocolate in front of her, deep in conversation with Mrs. Pike about the terrible state of the roads. Stacey and Mallory both roll their eyes, and Mallory heads for the tray of warm gingerbread. Stacey hovers nearby, breathing in the pleasant scent.

"Here you go." Mr. Pike hands her a mug of hot chocolate. "Your mom instructed me, so if something goes wrong, I refuse responsibility."

Stacey grins at him and takes a sip, playfully narrowing her eyes at him over the rim of the mug. He looks amused, and her stomach flips in response. She sits at the end of the table and watches him move about the kitchen, portioning out the gingerbread and directing Mallory to take it through to the living room.

When Mr. Pike stands by Mrs Pike at the counter and runs a gentle hand over her back, the butterflies in Stacey's stomach all swoop unpleasantly. She watches from beneath her lashes as Mrs Pike smiles at him and then turns back to Maureen. They're still chatting about the icy weather and the roads.

Mr. Pike chimes in, but there's a roar in Stacey's ears as she watches his hand move slowly up and down Mrs Pike's back, until it rests low against her hip, pulling her closer to him. Sneaking a glance at his face, Stacey realises he doesn't appear to be doing it consciously, and this makes her feel worse.

The hot chocolate is suddenly tasteless, and the scent of gingerbread overwhelming and unpleasant.

_Get a grip,_ Stacey's brain snaps at her heart. _Look at them and realise how happy they are together._

Reluctantly, she takes another look, and her heart sinks as she realises that Mr. and Mrs Pike really do look incredibly happy. There is no hint of tension or unhappiness between them.

_Is this it, then?_ her brain asks rather grumpily. _Can you get over him, now? It's gone far enough._

She sneaks another glance at them and catches Mr. Pike kissing the top of his wife's head. She can't ever remember them being so affectionate before - not in company. She wonders, briefly, if he has clued into the way Stacey is always fumbling and bumbling and blushing around him, and is merely reminding her of where his heart lies.

Her brain dismisses this as ridiculous. _It's Christmas. They've having another baby. They're happy. That's all. It has nothing to do with you because he'd never think - not in his wildest dreams - that you would see him as anything other than plain old Mr. Pike._

She knows the harsh thoughts coming from the back of her mind are right. He would never look twice at her, and she doubts he would pay enough attention to her to realise how silly she's been around him lately. Her heart sinks even further and she takes another large gulp of the hot chocolate.

She switches her attention to Mrs Pike. She is listening to Stacey's mom intently, one hand over her husband's, which is still curled against her hip. She is slim and pretty, and her smile lights up her whole face, sending her eyes dancing merrily.

Stacey suddenly realises, with a jolt, that she would never compare - no matter what the situation, or the circumstances or the dreams - Mrs Pike fits with Mr. Pike.

She almost hears it - the audible click between them - and she blinks and looks down into her hot chocolate. She wonders, momentarily, if she's going to cry, because suddenly she senses a huge loss, even though nothing has changed on the outside. She can see them fitting together in front of her, and suddenly she realises she's been seeing Mr. Pike differently because the pregnancy has forced her to think of him as one half of a pair.

Relief suddenly sweeps through her as she pins down the source of her emotional turmoil. She wonders now if she can work her way out of it.

_I never thought of him as somebody's soul mate, before,_ she thinks, watching him laugh and gesture with one hand as he adds to the conversation she has now lost track of. She realises, stupidly, that he became attractive when it became freshly-obvious that he was attractive to Mrs Pike. She wonders what this makes her. She wonders if she's the sort of person who will only ever be attracted to men already in relationships.

_No,_ her brain answers calmly. _Stop being silly._

She allows herself a small smile as she sips at the dregs of her hot chocolate. _I will. Eventually._


	4. Kitchen

**Title/Prompt:** Kitchen  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG | adult themes  
**Word count:** 6980  
**Summary:** One event begins the bonds of a strong friendship between Elizabeth Thomas and Richard Spier.

**Warning: **Discussions/depictions of illness and cancer, character death.

**Notes:** I came upon the idea, a few weeks ago, that while Kristy and Mary Anne were out playing as children, Elizabeth and Richard were in the kitchen talking about their own lives and obstacles. This sparked the idea for a fic. [This ends up as a five part story - the next chapters all continue as sequels to this one.]

There is a lot of conflicting information regarding Alma. There are sources that say she is a terrible cook and she hated it, and there are sources which indicate she was an awesome cook.

I also think that Alma's death was one of the main reasons Richard became so 'stiff' and uptight. That's not to say he didn't have it in him before Alma died, but I like to think he was a little more relaxed before he began to worry about what people thought of him raising Mary Anne alone.

The year is mentioned at the beginning of the story because the next couple of stories will cover more than one year. This story only covers a few months, but I wanted to start the timeline off properly. Please let me know if the passing of time is really difficult to follow here.

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

* * *

**1975**

* * *

Charlie has stacked a maze of boxes in the den. He declares it a fort, and informs his mother in a firm voice, "_No girls allowed_."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, beaming up at his mother.

Elizabeth puts her hands on her hips and blows her hair out of her face. The February air outside is horrifically icy, but she has stripped off her outer layers, hot and slightly sweaty after lugging boxes into the house. "Where's your father?"

Charlie points to the stairs.

Elizabeth treads upstairs, exhaustion finally beginning to settle into her aching muscles. "Patrick?"

She finds him assembling Kristy's crib. Kristy is on a blanket on the floor, kicking her legs in the air.

"I'm going to the store," Elizabeth says tiredly. "I'll just get the necessities - and something for dinner. What do you feel like?"

"I don't care," Patrick answers distractedly, turning one of the rails around in his hands. And, "Do you remember how I took this apart?"

She smirks. "I told you to write it down so you'd have instructions..."

He grins sheepishly at her and she smiles back. "I'll take Sam," she says. "Charlie's busy with his fort downstairs.

"Okay," Patrick answers, only half-listening to her.

Elizabeth trails her fingertips along the wall as she makes her way back through the house. _Their_ house. The first house she hasn't paid rent on.

A mortgage is different. A mortgage will let her paint the walls and pull out the kitchen cabinets and maybe, one day, add a small room to the back. She is no longer at the mercy of landlords and tenancy agreements. She smiles to herself as she treads down the stairs again, secretly loving the way the eighth step creaks under her weight.

The house, with peeling wallpaper and thick patterned carpeting, is _her_ house, and it holds her family snug and safe.

She can't stop smiling. 

* * *

She dresses Sam warmly in woollen jackets and layers before she takes him outside. The weather is bitterly cold. Bradford Court is windswept and bare, the houses closed tightly against the icy temperatures.

She tries to find the local radio station as she drives through the ice-slicked streets, breathing against her gloved hands and listening to Sam's nonsense chatter in the backseat.

The supermarket is busy. Elizabeth wheels her shopping cart up and down every aisle, unfamiliar with the layout. She buys frozen pizzas for dinner and dreams about spreading a blanket on the living room floor to eat it picnic-style with her family gathered around her.

People smile at them. Elizabeth smiles back. She's not sure if it's obvious she's new or if people are just being friendly because that's the way Stoneybrook is.

She grins at Sam and he cheers as she whirls the cart around another corner. 

* * *

It rains, their first night in the house. She and Patrick have sex, warm and close beneath the blankets. He curls tiredly around her, and though she longs for sleep, she is too happy to settle. She listens to her husband fall asleep behind her, his breath on her shoulder. She listens to the rain pour from the broken spouting outside the window of their bedroom. The street is quiet - not a single car passes. The house creaks when the wind blows against it.

As midnight slides past, she gets up to check on her children. Charlie is sleeping, though his face is tear-streaked due to the strange house and strange noises. She combs his hair gently off his forehead and kisses his cheek softly.

Sam has wriggled sideways, his arms flung out either side of him. She gently straightens him again and tucks the blankets around him.

Kristy is awake. She blinks up at her mother and gives her a gummy smile. Elizabeth rocks her in the kitchen, watching the rain pouring down the bare windows and listening to Kristy's satisfied grunts as she drinks hastily.

"My head's been in the clouds all day, little girl," Elizabeth whispers. "I've been daydreaming."

Kristy's eyes close and she lets out another little grunt of satisfaction.

Elizabeth smiles. She can't stop. 

* * *

Charlie's face falls as he watches his football sail over the fence into the yard next door.

"Didn't I tell you to throw it in the other direction?" Elizabeth asks, hand on her hip.

Charlie looks at her miserably. "Can I go get it back?" he asks in a small voice.

"Come on," Elizabeth answers, holding her hand out. "We'll go and ask."

Charlie takes her hand, but as he does so, their neighbour emerges and smiles at them cheerfully. "That was quite a throw," he says, tossing the ball back into their yard. "I saw it from my living room."

"Thank you, mister," Charlie breathes with relief, snatching up his football and running around to the backyard.

Elizabeth smiles at her neighbour. "Thank you," she says, stepping closer to the fence. She holds her hand out. "Elizabeth Thomas."

"Richard Spier." He smiles at her and nods towards the backyard. "And your football star?"

"That was Charlie."

Patrick appears on the porch. "Liz! Where's the bottle opener?"

She turns and beckons him over. "I don't know where it is," she says as he nears earshot. "This is Richard Spier, our neighbour."

"Patrick." Patrick gives Richard's hand a quick pump and turns back to Elizabeth. "No bottle opener?"

"It's somewhere," she says, exasperated and a little embarrassed. "Try the box on the counter."

Patrick grins at Richard and gives him a small wave. "Nice to meet you."

Richard nods.

Elizabeth feels her face warm. "Sorry," she says. "He's usually a little chattier than that."

"Never mind," Richard says, smiling. "I understand how stressful moving can be. My wife would like to know if you have time for coffee later - she'd like to meet you."

"Oh," Elizabeth says in surprise. She tucks an untidy coil of hair behind her ear. "That'd be nice. Should I..." She trails off and looks back towards the house. "I have three kids," she says after a moment. "I don't have anyone to sit for them -"

"Bring them over," Richard answers with another smile. "And tell Charlie he can fetch his ball anytime it lands in the yard."

Elizabeth smiles at him and he walks back to the house, hunched against the cold. 

* * *

Charlie is on his best behaviour. His hair is neatly-combed and his hands are clean.

Alma loves him. "Would you like a slice of cake, Charlie?"

His eyes widen at the cherry-covered slab of chocolate and cream in front of him. "Yes please," he breathes, looking up at Alma with a clear expression of adoration. She sets a slice of cake in front of him and seats herself beside Elizabeth with a smile.

"I'm sorry Patrick isn't here," Elizabeth blurts nervously, her fingers twisting beneath the table. "Kristy's just gone down for a nap, and Sam won't be far behind."

"I understand," Alma answers. She appears slightly nervous herself, but she gives Elizabeth a warm smile. "My little girl's upstairs. She's almost five months now. Mary Anne."

Elizabeth smiles back at her.

"Rioko's got a little girl as well," Alma says, motioning towards the house across the street. "Claudia's a couple of months ahead of our girls, but I'm sure they'll all be growing up together. I'll introduce you tomorrow."

"That'd be great," Elizabeth says. "Thank you." She gives Alma another wide smile, unable to contain the excitement and joy that has built up inside her since the move.

"Mrs Spier?" Charlie is swinging his legs slightly and still licking cream from his lips. "Are there any boys here?"

Alma laughs and glances towards her kitchen window. "You haven't met the Jones boys yet, Charlie?"

Charlie shakes his head.

"We should go and introduce ourselves to a few more people," Elizabeth says suddenly.

"No, nonsense," Alma replies. "It's hard being new. It took weeks before I got the courage to introduce myself to the neighbours. Sit there. I'll make some calls. Maxine Jones has two boys - Ricky and Randy. They're the same ages as Charlie and Sam. She should be home now. I'll ask her over for coffee." Alma smiles again and Elizabeth thinks how lucky she is to have moved next door to the Spiers. 

* * *

February disappears slowly. The weather barely changes. Elizabeth unpacks boxes to the sound of icy rain pattering against the window panes. Patrick starts his new job and comes home in the evenings with a wide smile on his face. He paints the living room one Sunday in March, when the afternoon light is white and cold. Elizabeth sneaks up behind him and kisses him behind his ear. The paint dribbles on the skirting board and he grins at her and tells her it'll be a constant reminder of her audacity.

She laughs at him using the word _audacity_ and goes to call Charlie in from the cold. 

* * *

"I've still got boxes stored in the basement," Elizabeth says, resting her chin on her palm. "We've been here nearly two months and I'm still not unpacked."

Alma smiles and tops up Elizabeth's coffee. "Do you need any help, Edie?"

"No," Elizabeth answers with a sigh. "I'll be fine once I get started. Motivation is the hard part. For some reason I can never seem to find the time."

"Any spare time you get is spent here, gossiping with me," Alma teases.

The doorbell rings and Alma gives Elizabeth another grin as she goes to answer it.

Elizabeth leans back in her chair as Alma answers the front door. Under the curve of Alma's arm, against the backdrop of misty rain, Elizabeth can see Charlie. He is panting and red-faced, and muddy stains grace the knees of his jeans.

"Hey, Mrs Spier!" he says breathlessly. "Is my mom here?"

Alma laughs and puts her hands on her hips. "Oh, dear. What happened to that nice, clean little boy who moved next door a couple of months ago?"

Charlie looks down at himself, then back up at her, confused. "It's me!" he says. "Charlie!"

Alma laughs again and he beams at her. "She's in the kitchen, sweetheart," Alma says, stepping back and gesturing Charlie through. "Have you been playing football?"

"Baseball!" Charlie calls back over his shoulder as he pelts towards the kitchen. "I hit a home run!"

"Charlie, don't run in the house," Elizabeth says, half-exasperated, half-amused. "Where's Dad?"

"At home, with Sam. He says there's nothing for dinner." His eyes widen slightly with hope. "Can we get pizza?"

Elizabeth checks her watch and sighs. "Tell him I'll be home in a minute."

"Okay," Charlie answers. He grins. "I hit Ricky for a home run. Right over the fence."

"Good for you," Elizabeth answers, grinning back at him.

"Yeah," Charlie says happily. He turns and hurries out the door again, stopping to wave briefly at Kristy and Mary Anne, who are both kicking about on a blanket in the living room.

Alma sits opposite Elizabeth again. "Is everything all right?"

"Oh, yeah," Elizabeth sighs, checking her watch again. "Just Patrick, reinforcing his inability to do anything domestic. I should go home and put dinner on."

"Finish your coffee. They won't starve."

"It's getting late," Elizabeth says guiltily, glancing at the clock on the wall.

"Finish your coffee," Alma says again, giving her a warm smile. "Richard will be home soon. Wait and say hello."

Elizabeth sips her coffee, listening to Kristy gurgling nonsense in the next room.

Alma is watching them through the doorway with a small smile on her face. "Claudia's crawling," she says suddenly. "Rioko says she's pulling herself up on furniture and everything already."

"Kristy's not crawling, but she can wriggle across the room if she puts her mind to it," Elizabeth says. "I put her down and, before I know it, she's across the room." She cranes her neck around to check on her daughter.

"She's fine," Alma says, watching Kristy squirm about on the carpet. She drums her fingers quietly on the table. "I feel a bit behind," she says suddenly, giving Elizabeth a slightly-embarrassed smile. "You and Rioko know what's in front of you. Maxine Jones has two boys, but they're at completely different stages to Mary Anne... She's my first. Everything is new. I feel a bit lost sometimes."

"Everybody feels lost," Elizabeth says. "Kristy's different to both Charlie and Sam. And she's my first little girl." She gives a smile and a small shrug. "She's different. We can learn together.

Alma gives her a rather grateful smile.

Richard comes through the front door a few minutes later. "Hello, Elizabeth." He smiles at her and kisses the top of Alma's head.

"Hi," Elizabeth says, draining the rest of her coffee hurriedly. "I was just leaving. I'll let you guys start dinner."

"There's no hurry," Alma assures her.

"No, it's okay," Elizabeth says. "The boys will starve unless I plate something up in front of them."

"I know what you mean," Alma says, shooting a cheeky look at Richard.

"I'm a good cook!" he insists.

"No you're not, dear," she answers, getting to her feet. Richard smiles at her again and follows Elizabeth through into the living room. Mary Anne beams up at him.

"Goodness," he says, stooping to pick Mary Anne up and smiling down at Kristy. "If I didn't know any better, I'd swear these two were twins."

Elizabeth laughs and lifts Kristy gently, bouncing her on her hip. Kristy gives Richard a dribbly grin. "I think Mary Anne is better behaved," Elizabeth says. "The similarities are only skin deep."

Alma smiles and puts her arm around Richard's waist. "I don't think that matters to them," she says. 

* * *

The rain makes the weeks pass slowly. Charlie escapes outside at every possible chance. Elizabeth has grown tired of warning him not to play in the mud.

Patrick kicks his shoes off at the door and walks through to the kitchen, whistling. Elizabeth smiles at him, but doesn't stop vigorously stirring the pasta sauce, which is slightly blackened against the bottom of the pan. "How was work?" she asks.

"Fine." He kisses her cheek and peers down at the sauce and the bubbling pot of pasta. "How was your day?"

"Fine." She turns the stove off and drains the pasta over the sink. Steam gently bathes her face. "Charlie's out in the back yard. He wanted you to throw the ball around.

Patrick checks his watch. "It's late. I'll do it tomorrow."

"Go and throw with him for five minutes," Elizabeth says. "I'll call you when I've got this plated up."

Patrick throws the kitchen window open. "Charlie! Dinner's ready!"

Elizabeth sighs, but Charlie's suddenly too hungry to care about games in the back yard.

They gather around the table. Sam is hoisted onto a stack of cushions so he can reach his plate. He seizes his plastic fork and carefully pokes at his meal. In her high chair, Kristy grabs fistfuls of mashed vegetables and sucks the mess from her fingers.

"I ran into Richard today," Patrick says, stabbing a piece of penne onto the end of his fork. "He looks terrible. Has something happened?"

"I don't know," Elizabeth answers distractedly, reaching across to push Sam's plate closer to him. "I haven't seen either of them for a couple of days. Alma was out yesterday and I took the boys for haircuts today."

"I cried," Sam tells his father, rubbing his hand over his hair.

"What'd you cry for?" Patrick asks.

Sam shrugs and looks down at his plate again.

"What do you mean Richard looks terrible?" Elizabeth asks after a moment, curiosity getting the better of her. "Alma said he's working hard."

"He looked sick." Patrick shrugs and glances around the kitchen. "Where's the paper?"

"No," Elizabeth says firmly. "You can read the paper when you're done eating."

Patrick exchanges a glance with Charlie and pulls a face. Charlie giggles. 

* * *

April is moving sluggishly. The temperature is still cold and snow is still crusted in the gutters. Elizabeth gives it a bitter look as she crosses the yard to the Spiers' front porch. Kristy is a rugged-up little bundle in her arms. Charlie and Sam are playing with Ricky and Randy Jones in Maxine's back yard. Elizabeth can hear Maxine calling for them all to get in out of the cold.

Elizabeth is almost at the front door when she realises Richard's car is sitting in the driveway. She hesitates for a moment, wondering if she should intrude upon them while he is home. She wonders how ill he is, and if it's contagious.

Alma spots her from the living room window, and waves. Elizabeth smiles and waves back, and starts to move towards the house again, her mind made up now that Alma has appeared welcoming.

Alma opens the door before Elizabeth reaches the porch. "Hi, Edie."

"Hi," Elizabeth says, smiling widely at her. "How are you?"

"Fine," Alma answers, closing the door firmly against the cold. Her own smile is rather shaky, and Elizabeth can see dark circles under her eyes.

Richard appears at the foot of the stairs. "Hello, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth blinks. "Hi, Richard." She makes a concerted effort not to stare, but she can't help but think he looks dreadful.

"Richard," Alma sighs, sounding exasperated, "go out and get some fresh air or something. Take Mary Anne to the store. We need more milk."

He clears his throat softly. "But -"

"You're driving me crazy," Alma says gently, giving him a small smile. "Go on."

"I can go, if this is a bad time..." Elizabeth says awkwardly.

"No," Alma says firmly, pointing to the living room. "I want you to stay."

Elizabeth hesitates for a moment before she gives Richard a small smile and heads to the living room, Kristy kicking and squirming about in her arms.

Mary Anne is stretched out on her stomach, kicking her legs and chewing wetly on a set of connected plastic rings. She ignores both Elizabeth and Kristy.

The front door opens and closes, and then Alma appears, sinking into the chair opposite Elizabeth. She looks tired.

"Sorry," she says after a moment.

"It's okay," Elizabeth says. She has the distinct feeling she's intruding. "Is everything all right?"

Alma fusses with a doily draped over the arm of her chair. "Yes," she says after a moment. She clears her throat and shakes her head. "No. I don't know."

Elizabeth immediately picks Kristy up and places her gently inside the playpen beside her chair. "I'll make us some coffee," she says.

Alma nods gratefully.

Elizabeth leans against the counter and listens to the coffee machine humming. The pot fills slowly. After a moment, Alma comes in and sits at the table. She straightens the salt and pepper shakers in the centre of the table with her fingertips.

Elizabeth sets a cup of coffee down in front of her. "Alma, what's wrong?"

Alma smiles down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with her finger. "I haven't been feeling very well," she admits after a moment. "I thought I was just feeling run-down because of Mary Anne, you know..." She swallows with difficulty. "And I thought... I mean..." She gestures to her chest and looks around the kitchen desperately, as though seeking a way out. "I've had some breast pain," she says. "I wanted to breastfeed but it never really worked..."

"Alma, that's okay," Elizabeth says. "I don't think that's particularly unusual... Charlie was a nightmare..."

"But there were all these other things, and Richard kept insisting I see someone," Alma says, swallowing hard. Her skin has gone gray and clammy. "I've been..." She shakes her head. "I thought back pain and aching limbs were because of the weight I gained when I was pregnant..."

Elizabeth can hear her heart beating in her chest.

"Anyway," Alma says quietly, looking down at the table again. "It turns out it's not anything to do with Mary Anne." She rubs her palms tiredly over her face, and her voice comes out muffled. "It's breast cancer, and it's spreading."

Elizabeth swallows. She can feel sweat prickling at her hairline. "Are they sure?"

Alma nods and then gives a shaky laugh. "I should have listened to Richard sooner," she says. "I just thought all these stupid changes were because of the pregnancy..." She cups one of her breasts before she lets both her hands fall to her lap. "Hindsight is twenty-twenty," she says, giving Elizabeth a wobbly smile.

Elizabeth rakes her hands through her hair and shifts forward a little. "So, what's next?" she asks. "Treatment? Surgery? What are you going to do?"

Alma glances through into the living room. Kristy and Mary Anne are both babbling loudly, as though trying to outdo each other. "Treatment will buy me more time," Alma says quietly. "But that's all."

Elizabeth takes her hand. "No," she says, "It'll be okay. You'll be fine."

Alma smiles, but she looks very pale. "It sounds silly," she says tearfully, "but it's only just hit me. I thought I knew what I was facing, but..." She trails off and blinks rapidly. Her eyes are bright.

"It's the shock," Elizabeth says. She squeezes Alma's hand again. "It'll be all right, Alma. You're young. It'll be fine." She sounds so confident, Alma can't help but smile. 

* * *

She's my best friend," Elizabeth whispers into the dark quiet of the bedroom. Her voice is still husky with tears.

"I know," Patrick answers gently. He runs his fingers through her hair.

"She was the one who made us so welcome... She introduced us to everyone..." Elizabeth blinks fresh tears onto the shoulder of Patrick's t-shirt. "She makes Charlie's favourite cherry chocolate cake."

Patrick kisses the top of her head. "It'll be okay."

"No it _won't_," Elizabeth says, and her voice cracks. "That's the whole _point_, Patrick. It _won't_ be okay. She's going to die. It's spreading through her bones and it's too late to stop it."

He sounds suitably guilty, and he keeps his voice gentle. "What do you want me to say, Liz?" He hugs her tightly and she gives another sob and squeezes her eyes closed.

"No wonder Richard looks like shit," Patrick says after a moment. "Poor guy. How's he coping?"

"He's not," Elizabeth says, wiping her eyes. She squirms closer to her husband and closes her eyes. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

He hugs her again. 

* * *

Elizabeth thinks back to all the cigarettes she smoked in high school, and the cigarettes and weed she and Patrick smoked in college, and she books an appointment for a check up.

The doctor treats her anxiety with good humour. "You're very young, and in good health, Mrs Thomas."

"Just give me the damn tests," she says gruffly.

The results for everything indicate perfect health, and Elizabeth's relief and good fortune cause her to feel a little guilty. 

* * *

"Hey, Mr. Spier!"

Elizabeth looks around at Charlie's joyful greeting and spots Richard a few feet away, a bag of groceries in his arms.

"Hello, Charlie," he answers. He is still pale, but his smile is quite genuine. "Hello, Elizabeth."

She smiles back at him. "How are you?."

"I'm well," he answers, hefting the grocery bag slightly. He pauses for a moment. "Alma would like you to come by later," he says to Elizabeth.

"Has she seen the doctor?" Elizabeth asks awkwardly. She's still not quite sure how to act around Richard. As much as she loves Alma, and as comfortable as she is around her, Richard is still a mystery. It seems such an intimate thing, questioning him about Alma's health, and she feels uncomfortable about it.

Richard clears his throat quietly and nods rather stiffly. "We both went this morning." He glances at Charlie and then back to Elizabeth, looking a little helpless. "There are very few options."

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth whispers.

Richard nods. "She's got something for the pain, now. I suppose that will help."

"I'm making Mrs Spier a card," Charlie says, looking up at Richard. "I got new markers."

"I'm sure she'll love it," Richard answers.

Charlie beams.

"Just keep the markers away from Sam, this time," Elizabeth says, suddenly desperate to swing the conversation away from the heaviness of illness. "We don't need more scribbles on the walls."

"Where are Sam and Kristy?" Richard asks, glancing into the backseat of Elizabeth's car.

"With Maxine Jones," Elizabeth explains. "Grocery shopping with more than one Thomas child is kind of exhausting."

Richard chuckles, and the sound greatly relieves Elizabeth. She suddenly realises she's just as worried about him as she is about Alma.

"Tell Alma I'll come by this afternoon," Elizabeth says. "I'm sure Charlie's card will be ready by then."

"Yup," Charlie answers cheerfully.

Richard gives him another small smile. "Her favourite colour is yellow," he says. "If that helps." 

* * *

Meeting with the doctor has well and truly brought the reality of the situation to Alma. Her face is pale, and when Charlie hands her the card he has made, she bursts into fresh tears.

Charlie looks panicked, until Alma hugs him tightly. "It's beautiful," she sniffs. "Thank you, Charlie." She kisses the top of his head, and he is so worried about her he doesn't squirm away and complain like he usually does.

"Sam helped," he says nervously, pointing to red scribbles on the back of the card. "Kristy's still too little."

Alma kisses him again and wipes her eyes on her handkerchief. "I love it," she tells him. "It's beautiful."

"Why don't you go and play with Sam in the living room?" Elizabeth asks.

Charlie recognises the dismissal and he takes it rather gladly, hurrying into the living room where Sam is sitting on the floor with a picture book.

"So, what did the doctor say?" Elizabeth asks hopefully. "Are they going to send you for treatment?"

Alma dabs at her eyes. "No," she answers shakily. "It's all through my bones. In my spine." She draws a deep breath. "Treatment could buy me some time, though it would be very little. I thought it would be worth it..." She glances towards Mary Anne, smiling in her high chair. "But, the treatment I'd need is so aggressive, and it would buy me so little extra time... The doctor warned it might make me feel worse." She gives Elizabeth a small smile. "I don't feel so bad, you know. The pain comes and goes. It's easy to ignore, most days."

Elizabeth digs her fingernails into her palm, panic almost overwhelming her. "How much time do they think you have?"

Alma tucks her hair behind her ear with a trembling hand. "I ignored it all for far too long," she admits tiredly. "I thought I was too young, and I thought the changes were more to do with my pregnancy than anything else. I just want to see Mary Anne's first birthday."

Elizabeth swallows hard, and glances at Mary Anne. "And do they think you will?"

Alma dabs her handkerchief to her eyes again. "No," she says. 

* * *

"Alma's asleep," Richard says, greeting Elizabeth at the front door. "Come in."

"I don't want to bother you," Elizabeth says nervously. "I just thought I'd stop by while my mom can watch the kids."

"Ah, I wondered who your visitor was," Richard answers with a smile, stepping back and letting Elizabeth into the front hall. "Is she staying long?"

"She's leaving tomorrow afternoon." Elizabeth follows Richard into the kitchen. "Is Mary Anne sleeping, too?"

"Yes," Richard answers. "Coffee?"

"Thanks." Elizabeth sits at the kitchen table, feeling nervous. She's spent very little one-on-one time with Richard, though she supposes she should try to get used to it.

"Does your mother live far away?" Richard asks.

"Not really," Elizabeth answers, "but she's always busy." She gives Richard a smile. "She saw Kristy walk yesterday."

"Kristy's walking?" Richard asks, looking at her in surprise.

"Running, apparently," Elizabeth answers. "I missed it. I was making lunch. The kids were out in the backyard and Kristy ran after a ball Charlie was throwing around." She buries her face in her hands and gives a strange little laugh. "I can tell she's going to be more trouble than the other two put together."

Richard gives her a small smile and places a cup of coffee in front of her.

"How's Alma feeling?" Elizabeth asks finally, unable to put the question off any longer.

Richard traces his finger up and down the outside of his own cup of coffee. "She hasn't been out of bed today," he admits quietly. "Her pain medication makes things rather unpleasant."

Elizabeth watches him for a moment. "And how are _you_?" she asks.

He looks surprised at the question, and Elizabeth wonders how many others have thought to check upon him as he watches Alma slip further and further into obvious distress.

"Quite unwilling to look past tomorrow," he admits after a moment, shifting his gaze back to his coffee. "Alma is loading me up with instructions." A shaky smile appears on his face. "She's written a letter to Mary Anne. She's told me what things she wants passed on. And she spent an hour yesterday instructing me as I tried to braid her hair, so if the need comes up, I can do Mary Anne's."

Elizabeth gives him a sad smile. "Learning to braid is a really important step," she says. "All of my dolls had braided hair at one point."

Richard chuckles and then pushes his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I don't know how I'm going to do this alone," he says softly, his eyes closed.

Elizabeth suspects it's the first time he's ever voiced the concern aloud. 

* * *

Alma watches Mary Anne crawl her way across the carpet. "I never really worry about her, you know," she says after a moment.

Elizabeth looks up, still slightly distracted as she attempts to placate Kristy, who is very unhappy about being confined to the playpen in the Spiers' living room.

Alma continues, her eyes still on her daughter. "I worry about Richard more often than I worry about Mary Anne."

"You don't need to worry," Elizabeth says, desperate to remove any burden she can from Alma's shoulders.

Alma gives her a small smile. "I'm very glad you moved next door, Edie," she says. "You'll look in on him from time to time, won't you? Just to make sure he's okay?"

"Of course I will," Elizabeth says, feeling the now-familiar ache in her throat again.

"Thank you," Alma sighs, reaching her hand towards Mary Anne. Mary Anne smiles up at her. 

* * *

Alma is rushed to hospital in late June.

Elizabeth finds a bunch of yellow daisies in the gift shop and takes them up to Alma's room. She hovers in the doorway, terrified about what she will find when she approaches the bed. She peers around the door carefully.

Richard is in the chair beside the bed, Mary Anne asleep in the crook of his arm. His free hand is stretched towards Alma, his fingers holding onto her as though she might physically slip away from him at any moment.

Elizabeth knocks softly and he looks up.

"Hello." He clears his throat quietly and sits up a little straighter. "She's sleeping."

"What happened?" Elizabeth asks, gripping the daisies in her fist. The stems bend and snap inside the cellophane wrapping.

"Pain, in her stomach," Richard says, his voice gravelly. "They said that could happen if it - if it kept spreading. They think they've stopped it, for now."

Elizabeth holds her hand to her forehead, grief and despair hammering at her temples. She does her best to hold her tears back. She lays the flowers on the bedside table, suddenly desperate for movement and action. "Let me take Mary Anne for a while," she says. "It'll give you a break."

Richard doesn't argue. He lets Elizabeth take his quietly-slumbering daughter into her arms.

Elizabeth kisses the top of Mary Anne's head. "We'll be back," she says. "We'll give you some time alone."

Richard gives her a small smile, and Elizabeth leaves to pace up and down the corridor, tears burning in her eyes and the need to keep moving forcing her onwards. "I guess I get it from my mom," Elizabeth whispers to Mary Anne, who sleeps on, oblivious. "She was never really one to sit around and cry, either. No matter how inviting it might seem." She hoists the little girl gently in her arms. "I wonder how you'll take after Alma?"

Mary Anne sighs in her sleep and Elizabeth kisses the top of her head again.

When she finally returns to Alma's hospital room, Alma is awake, though pale and weak.

Elizabeth hovers in the doorway, watching Alma and Richard talking softly.

"I'm really frightened," Alma whispers.

Richard leans his forehead against hers. Elizabeth watches his thumb trace gently across his wife's temple, before she turns away again, not wanting to intrude upon them. 

* * *

"Mom?" Charlie asks, tugging on her sleeve.

She stops chopping carrot and looks down at him.

"How old do you have to be to get cancer?" he asks.

"Old," Patrick answers, turning a page of the paper as he sits at the kitchen table.

Charlie peers around the counter at him. "Like Mrs Spier?"

"Why do you want to know?" Elizabeth asks, running her fingers lightly through his hair.

Charlie looks up at her worriedly. "How do you catch it?"

Elizabeth's heart sinks.

Patrick looks up from his paper. "Stop worrying, kiddo," he says. "Why don't you go and play with Ricky?"

Charlie ignores his suggestion, as does Elizabeth.

"Come on, honey," she says, taking his hand. "We'll go and talk in the living room."

"He's five," Patrick says pointedly.

"And not stupid," Elizabeth snaps at him. She leads Charlie towards the sofa and pulls him onto her lap. She kisses his forehead. "It's not like a cold," she promises him. "You won't get it just because Mrs Spier has it."

Charlie looks a little relieved. "What about Mr. Spier and Mary Anne?"

"They'll be okay too." Elizabeth strokes his hair away from his forehead. "They'll just be sad for a little while, after Mrs Spier goes to heaven."

"Oh," Charlie sighs. He leans his head against his mother's shoulder. "Me too."

"Me too," Elizabeth echoes, hugging him tightly. 

* * *

"What a way to go," Alma says tiredly, looking around her bedroom. She's propped up against the headboard with several pillows. Elizabeth is painting her nails for her.

Elizabeth isn't sure what to say. "At least you're home," she says after a moment, carefully dipping the brush back in the nail polish.

"Yes. I'm not going to die in a hospital," Alma says determinedly.

Elizabeth gives her a small smile. "Richard's glad to have you home," she says.

Alma nods and watches Elizabeth carefully apply another coat of nail polish to her little finger. "He's lost weight," she says, sounding guilty. "I feel like I need to comfort him and I don't know how."

Elizabeth pats her leg gently. "I'm afraid nothing short of a cure will comfort him."

"I guess not." Alma sighs and leans back against the pillows. "My parents keep calling. They want to come and stay. I think that would drive Richard right over the edge."

Elizabeth laughs. "Don't they get along?"

"Oh, they do," Alma answers. "It's just that everyone is so stressed. I think it would make things worse, having all the worry and tension under one roof." She shifts uncomfortably. "I love them," she says softly. "I don't want them to see me like this. I've told them I have time."

"Oh, Alma..." Elizabeth looks at her sorrowfully. "What if you don't? What if they don't see you again?"

Alma's eyes fill with tears and she fixes her gaze on the window, blinking rapidly. "I want everyone to remember me healthy and happy," she says. "I don't want them to remember me like this."

Elizabeth doesn't push it, but she can't help but worry Alma's parents would want to say goodbye. She wonders if there will be consequences later, should Alma die before they do eventually visit.

"There's so much left to do," Alma says after a moment, changing the subject.

"Can I do anything?" Elizabeth asks immediately.

"Oh, no," Alma answers. "You've done so much." She gives Elizabeth a smile that lights up her entire face. "I've lived in Stoneybrook for years, Edie, but I've never managed to find a friend like you."

"Don't," Elizabeth says. "You'll make me cry."

Alma chuckles. "No," she says. "I don't want people to cry over me."

"We all will, you know," Elizabeth answers, blowing gently on Alma's nails to dry the polish.

"Not for too long, I hope," Alma answers. She gives Elizabeth another smile. "I'd never have chosen this," she says, "but I'm going to die very happy, you know. I have everything I've ever wanted. I only wish I could be around to enjoy it longer. To watch Mary Anne grow up."

"Well, I'm not sure what happens when we die," Elizabeth answers carefully, "but I'd really like to think you _will_ be around to watch her."

Alma smiles, but her eyes look sad."I wish she could watch me back," she answers heavily. 

* * *

At first, Elizabeth thinks it is the thunder that has woken her. It has been rumbling around the edges of town all day. The heat is still heavy in the air, and the breeze is warm, bringing no relief into the dark bedroom through the open window.

"Get off," Elizabeth mumbles, her eyes still closed. She pushes Patrick's arm away from her and he snorts in his sleep. She sighs and opens her eyes to squint at the clock. Blue light pulses regularly through the chink in the curtains. She watches it for a moment with a frown on her face until she realises what it is.

She scrambles out of bed, breathless with panic. "Watch the kids," she says, watching Patrick's shadowy figure stir.

"Hm?" he asks.

"Watch the kids!" She throws the bedroom door back and takes the stairs two at a time, landing heavily and painfully on the floor in the front hall. She fights the lock on the door. The porch light has been left on and moths batter against it.

She runs out onto the front lawn, merely glancing at the ambulance as she rounds the curve of the fence. Its back doors are open.

She nearly crashes into Richard as he comes onto the front porch. Mary Anne is in his arms. His face looks yellow against the odd light of the porch and the street.

"Richard." Elizabeth grabs her stomach, breathless and sick.

He doesn't answer her. Elizabeth knows it's too late. "Give her to me, Richard," she says gently, reaching for Mary Anne.

He looks at her in surprise. "Yes," he breathes. "All right."

"I'll be right back," Elizabeth promises. She carries Mary Anne carefully, talking to her quietly as she hurries back towards her own house. Mary Anne is sniffling and hiccupping as though she has been crying for a long time.

Elizabeth thrusts her into Patrick's arms.

"What's going on? he asks. "Is it Alma?"

"Take Mary Anne," Elizabeth says. "I'm going back to find out. For God's sake, keep Charlie inside if he wakes up."

"Liz..."

She's gone, hurrying back into the front yard. She arrives back in time to see them loading Alma's body into the back of the ambulance. The still form is very small under the sheet.

"Oh," Elizabeth sobs, clutching at her hair. "Oh, Alma."

She turns to find Richard. He is standing in the shadow by the living room window. She takes his hand and squeezes it. "Richard?"

"I missed it," he whispers, watching the ambulance. "All those times I pictured her last moment... We were awake, every time, and I could say what I wanted to say. But I woke up and she was cold."

Elizabeth can feel tears on her face. She presses her cheek against Richard's arm. A light has come on in the Kishi's house. The neighbours will be arriving soon, coming over to question him.

"I missed it," Richard says again. "I can't remember the last thing I said to her."

Elizabeth squeezes his hand again. "She wouldn't care," she whispers. "It was all the other times she wanted you to remember. Not the very end."

He nods once, though she wonders if he really heard her. He lets go of her hand long enough to go and talk to the paramedics. As they prepare to leave, Elizabeth follows Richard and takes hold of him again.

"Let's go inside," she says desperately, feeling breathless and choked. "Come on, Richard. Come on." She tugs at his hand and he follows her quietly.

The ambulance pulls away and he stops to watch it disappear around the curve of Bradford Court. 

* * *

Elizabeth makes coffee, but neither she nor Richard makes an attempt to drink it. The sun is coming up in the east, and the sky is pink and yellow. The house is silent and open and it feels very, very empty.

"What am I going to do?" Richard asks helplessly.

After a moment, Elizabeth reaches across the table and takes his hand. She doesn't want to tell him it'll be okay. She's not sure, herself, that it will be. She runs her thumb gently across his knuckles. "We'll get through this," she says. "It won't be easy, Richard, but we'll get through this."

He looks down at their hands and squeezes her fingers gently. "Thank you, Edie," he whispers.

It's the first time he has ever called her Edie. She finds herself smiling at him. 


	5. Grief

**Title/Prompt:** Grief  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG | adult themes  
**Word count:** 8755  
**Summary:** Richard grieves the loss of his wife and struggles to prove himself a worthy father. Elizabeth grows increasingly aware of the cracks in her marriage.

**Notes:** Continues from the previous chapter 'Kitchen'

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

* * *

**1975**

* * *

The sun beats down, sending the heat shimmering off the graves and headstones around the gathered crowd. The earth is pale and hot beneath them. Along the creek beyond the cemetery, cicadas drone endlessly.

Elizabeth can feel sweat under her arms and between her breasts. In an effort to distract herself from the discomfort and the pressing urge of tears behind her aching eyes, she looks around at the people surrounding the open grave: Jack and Linda Arnold, David and Maxine Jones, Paul Stanton and his daughter, Howard Kingbridge and his wife... Dozens of other people Elizabeth doesn't think she's even seen before, let alone met or spoken to.

Closer to the grave, almost directly opposite Elizabeth, are Bill and Verna Baker. Verna is holding Mary Anne in her arms, and she turns quietly and rests her head on her husband's shoulder as Alma's coffin is slowly lowered into the ground.

Elizabeth edges closer to Patrick and he puts his arm around her. Elizabeth watches the coffin disappear into the ground before she looks at Richard. He stands at the foot of the grave, tall and silent, his face ashen. Alone. 

* * *

Patrick wipes his hand across his forehead. He looks wilted in his suit.

"I'm going to stay for a while," Elizabeth says. "But you can head home, if you want. It's hot."

Patrick hooks his finger under his collar and tugs. "Tell me about it. I'd better go and rescue the sitter from the kids, anyway."

Elizabeth smiles at him and he kisses her gently.

"Want me to come back and pick you up?"

"No, it's okay. I'll get a ride with Maxine." She squeezes his hand and watches him disappear through the crowd of people all fanning themselves in the stifling heat of the church hall.

Elizabeth escapes out into the yard at the back, seeking fresh air. The grass is yellow and crisp, like straw. The sun has disappeared behind the hall and its shadow has begun to creep out towards the fence. Elizabeth leans her back against the brick and closes her eyes, listening to the chatter and hum of Alma's friends and family inside the cramped building.

"Elizabeth?"

She opens her eyes to find Richard beside her.

"Hey," she says in soft surprise. "How are you?" She silently curses herself for asking such a stupid question.

He gives her a small smile. "I thought you'd gone. I wanted to say thank you." He leans against the wall beside her and runs his eyes over the bare yard in front of them.

"You don't need to thank me," she says awkwardly. She looks up at him. The hair by his temples is dark with sweat and his face looks lined and grey. "Today's an awful day," she whispers suddenly. "I'm really sorry, Richard."

He nods, and keeps his eyes focused somewhere towards the middle of the parched lawn. "Everyone is talking about her in the past tense," he says after a moment. "I'm not used to it. I don't want to be used to it."

Elizabeth takes his hand quietly and they stand there together, listening to the polite conversation murmur into the summer air. 

* * *

Darkness has fallen, but the air remains warm and still. Crickets chirp from the parched lawns on Bradford Court.

Elizabeth leans over Kristy, smoothing the cotton sheet out carefully and watching her daughter's chest rising and falling peacefully. She looks up as the light comes on in Mary Anne's room, opposite.

She watches through the gap in the blinds as Verna gently places Mary Anne in her crib. Richard stands in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. He is still in the suit he wore to the funeral, though the jacket is gone and his tie and sleeves are loose. Verna gestures towards Mary Anne and says something gently to Richard. He looks towards Mary Anne for a long time before he nods slowly.

Elizabeth stands there until Verna and Richard disappear from view, and Mary Anne's room is dark again. 

* * *

"I'm so worried about him," Elizabeth confesses, staring up towards the ceiling of her bedroom.

"He'll make his own way through it," Patrick says quietly. "Don't crowd him."

Elizabeth rolls onto her side and reaches one hand towards her husband. "He'll need help."

"I mean it, Liz, don't push it," Patrick warns, his eyes closed. "Maybe all he wants is a bit of breathing room."

She sighs and rolls over again with her back to him. "Not everyone is afraid of being suffocated, Patrick." 

* * *

"I'll be late tonight," Patrick says, before he drains the rest of his coffee in one swallow. "I'll call you later."

"Okay," Elizabeth murmurs distractedly. She urges another spoon of mushy cereal towards Kristy, who shrieks in protest and points towards the floor, wanting to get down. Patrick presses a hurried kiss against the top of Elizabeth's head before he leaves, closing the front door swiftly behind him.

"Just a little bit more," Elizabeth says, waving the spoon at Kristy.

"No," Kristy answers, closing her mouth tightly and turning her head.

"Oh, all right," Elizabeth sighs, wiping her hands and lifting Kristy from the high chair. Kristy runs two steps and then drops to her knees, crawling rapidly on through to the living room, where Charlie and Sam are playing.

Elizabeth starts to clear the table when there is a knock at the door. She sighs, assuming Patrick has forgotten his keys, but it's Richard.

"Hi," she says in surprise. She stares at him for a moment before she remembers to step back and let him in. She glances around at the breakfast mess.

"Sorry to bother you," Richard says apologetically.

"No, it's okay." Elizabeth leads him through to the kitchen, trying to remember if he has ever been there before. Alma used to stop by, before she was so ill, but mostly it is Elizabeth who journeys next door to visit.

"Do you want some coffee?" she asks nervously.

"Only if it isn't any trouble."

"No, of course not." She feels nervous. She concentrates on making coffee, wracking her brain for things to say to him. She's not sure whether or not she should mention Alma.

Richard breaks the silence first. "Thank you, again, for coming yesterday," he says softly. "And for your help the other morning..."

Elizabeth nods and sets his coffee down, sitting opposite him. "It's okay," she says.

He turns his coffee cup around in his hands. "I just had to get away for a moment," he says eventually, giving Elizabeth a small, apologetic smile. "Verna is... talkative."

"Oh," Elizabeth laughs. "Are they staying long?"

"No, they leave today." Richard turns his coffee again and makes no effort to drink it. "They live on a farm, in Iowa," he adds. "They need to get back."

"Sure." Elizabeth watches him turning his mug around and around.

"They're going to take Mary Anne for a little while," Richard adds softly. His face is pale and he looks horrendously guilty. He swallows. "She looks so much like Alma," he says. "It hurts."

"I know," Elizabeth says sympathetically. "I'm sure Mary Anne will be fine, Richard. Bill and Verna will take good care of her and you can concentrate on getting back on your feet."

He gives a slight nod. "I had months to prepare for this," he says quietly. "I never wanted to imagine what it would be like without her, and now I'm forced to face it anyway."

"This was never going to be easy," Elizabeth says.

"Verna and Bill..." Richard clears his throat and looks down at the table. "They won't stop talking about her. I can't..." He draws in a shaky breath. "They didn't see her, at the end. They don't know what it was like. How thin she became, and the sounds she made when she was in pain..." His voice cracks, and Elizabeth can see tears swimming in his eyes.

"Oh, Richard," she whispers, reaching for him. "They don't mean to upset you. Everyone will deal with it a different way. Talking about Alma obviously makes things easier for them." She pats his hand gently. "Let them take Mary Anne until you feel strong enough to manage things again."

He nods distractedly, staring down at his untouched coffee. "I hate it," he whispers, as though continuing a sentence he started earlier. "I delay going to bed as long as I can... The nights seem to last forever. I can't sleep." He gives a small shudder, his eyes fixed and wide. "I can't sleep in that bed..."

Elizabeth tries to imagine what it would be like without Patrick sleeping beside her, and she can't. She sits quietly with Richard as his coffee goes cold. 

* * *

The end of July drags out slowly. August appears with bright sunrises and yellow afternoons. Bradford Court shimmers and wavers in the heat.

"What are we going to do for Kristy's first birthday?" Elizabeth asks one morning, setting a plate of toast in front of Charlie.

Patrick barely glances up from his newspaper. "She won't remember it. Do we have to do anything at all?"

"We should make her a cake," Charlie suggests, looking up at his mother.

"We can do that," Elizabeth agrees, ignoring Patrick. She shoots him a dirty look as he reaches for his coffee, and he looks back at her in surprise.

"If Mrs Spier was still alive, she could make the cake," Charlie says matter-of-factly. "She makes good cake."

"She did make good cake," Elizabeth agrees.

Patrick shoots her a dirty look, this time. The Spiers have become a sore subject with him, and Elizabeth can't understand why.

"Can I help?" Sam asks hopefully, looking up at his mother.

"Sure," Elizabeth agrees. "We've still got a little while to go, though. How about we make some invitations first? We can invite Janine and Claudia, and Ricky and Randy."

"Cool," Charlie says happily, munching his toast. 

* * *

Elizabeth is watering the rhododendrons by the fence when Richard pulls into his driveway.

"Hi," she calls to him.

He smiles at her. "Hello, Elizabeth."

She decides to get right to the subject. "It's Kristy's birthday on Friday," she says. "We're having a cake on Saturday. You're welcome to come."

He smiles again and shakes his head. "I'll be working."

"On a Saturday?" Elizabeth asks, shooting him a look of playful disapproving.

"I've missed a lot, lately," he answers. His smile is gentle, but Elizabeth feels her heart sink as she realises _why_ he's missed a lot of work.

"Of course," she answers. "You're still welcome, though. John and Rioko are bringing Janine and Claudia, and Maxine will be by with her boys..." She trails off, feeling stupid. Mary Anne is still with Bill and Verna.

Richard has nobody to bring. 

* * *

Kristy has recently become more aware of the doorbell, and roars with laughter whenever it chimes through the house. Sam and Charlie have both taken to sneaking out the front door and ringing it, just to hear her giggle.

When the bell chimes for the sixth time on Friday, Elizabeth loses her patience. She flings her dishtowel onto the counter and storms towards the front hall. "Charlie!" she bellows.

Richard looks through the front window with a look of alarm.

"Oh," Elizabeth breathes. She starts to laugh as she opens the door to him. "Sorry. Charlie's been ringing the bell all day. It's a new game, or something."

Richard smiles and holds up a wrapped gift. "For Kristy."

"Oh, Richard!" Elizabeth beams at him. "You didn't have to do that." She shows him in, taking the present from him. It looks like a wrapped book. Elizabeth immediately decides to read it to her children that night.

Kristy is still chuckling from the shrill chime of the doorbell as Elizabeth picks her up and carries her into the kitchen. She sits in her high-chair, turning the birthday package in her chubby hands. Elizabeth starts to tear it for her and she quickly catches on.

"Would you like some coffee?" Elizabeth asks.

"No, thank you. It's getting late and I'm sure you'll be getting dinner ready soon." Richard gives her a small smile and watches Kristy shred the wrapping paper in her hands. The book falls to the floor and she ignores it, more intent upon crumpling the paper in her hands.

"How's Patrick?" Richard asks politely.

"Fine." Elizabeth glances irritably to the clock. "Late." She smiles at Richard. "How are you?"

He drums his fingers lightly on the table. "As well as can be expected," he answers after a short moment. He pauses and watches Kristy for a moment. "I got a letter from Verna, yesterday," he says. "Mary Anne is walking and talking and growing up..."

He drums his fingers again and Kristy watches him with sharp interest.

"It sounds like she's being taken care of," Elizabeth answers, not sure what else she can say.

"Yes," Richard agrees. He looks relieved and guilty all at once. "Mary Anne seems to be a great comfort to them." He drums his fingers again and Kristy reaches for his hand.

"Are you going to bring Mary Anne home for her birthday?" Elizabeth asks curiously, hoping she isn't being too nosey.

"I haven't yet decided," Richard answers softly, watching Kristy grasping at his hand. He withdraws it slowly and gets to his feet, smiling at Elizabeth. "I hope tomorrow goes well," he says.

"You're still welcome to come, you know," Elizabeth says desperately. She thinks a bit of social interaction would do Richard the world of good.

"Happy birthday, Kristy," he says, running his hand gently over the top of Kristy's head. She ignores him and turns back to the shreds of wrapping paper on the tray of her high chair.

"Thanks for the gift, Richard," Elizabeth says, following him to the front door. "I'll read it to her and the boys tonight."

He smiles, and looks sad. "I'm glad," he says. He pauses for a moment, his hand on the doorknob. "I hope Verna is reading to Mary Anne."

Elizabeth stands at the door and watches him cross the yard to his own empty house. 

* * *

_"Stop it_," Elizabeth pleads, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes as she tries to finish clearing the breakfast dishes.

Patrick grabs her waist and forces his voice even higher, matching the radio word-for-word. "Oh my love, you're so good, treating me so cruel..."

She laughs and shoves him, but he grips onto her and grins, curling his arm around her waist and twirling her. "...Like a dumbstruck fool, with all your jive talkin', you're telling me lies, yeah..."

"It's worrying that you know _all_ the words," she taunts, burying her face in his shoulder and giggling.

That stops him. He grins and shrugs, reaching across the counter to switch the radio off. "It's on all the damn time."

"Sure it is," she breathes, still wiping tears from her eyes. "I didn't know your voice could get that high."

"Glad I can still surprise you, occasionally," he says, grinning at her.

She laughs again and takes a moment to stand still against him, her face buried against his shoulder.

"Which one of us is going to finish the breakfast dishes?" she asks after a moment. She pulls away slightly and smiles at him.

"You?" he asks hopefully, giving her another grin."Then _you_ can go and clean the bathroom," she says.

He groans. "I'll finish the dishes."

She kisses him and hands him the dishtowel. "I want to do the floors too, so can you lift the chairs onto the table for me?"

"I don't think Kristy will care about clean floors at her birthday party," Patrick says.

"I will," Elizabeth answers, patting his cheek gently. She disappears upstairs and grins as she hears Patrick flick the radio back on. 

* * *

Elizabeth isn't sure why, but she can't sit and chat with Rioko like she could with Alma. She likes the Kishi family, and she gets on well with them, but the conversation feels awkward and stilted.

"Janine's growing fast," Elizabeth offers, watching Janine give Sam an admonishing look as he holds a baseball towards her.

"Very fast," Rioko says proudly. "She's reading at a very advanced level."

"Wow," Elizabeth says. She clears her throat quietly and glances around.

Mimi gives her a kind smile."Your home is looking lovely," she says.

Elizabeth reddens. "Thanks. To tell the truth, there are still boxes in the basement. I'm not sure they'll ever be unpacked."

Rioko laughs quietly. "It took us almost a year."

"There are boxes in the attic," Mimi adds. "Things from Japan."

"I keep asking Patrick to go down and look at it all," Elizabeth says. "Most of it is his. Richard says his basement floods every winter. I'm not sure if ours will be the same, but I don't want any of our things to get wet..." She trails off, noting the look on Rioko's face."How _is_ Richard?" she asks in a hushed voice. "You seem close to him."

Elizabeth tries to read any sarcasm or accusation in Rioko's comment, but there isn't any. It's simply a statement, and Elizabeth supposes it's true."He's dealing with things as best he can," she says. "I invited him today, but he said he needed to go to the office in Stamford."

"Oh," Rioko sighs. She shakes her head. "He will throw himself into work and burn himself out."

"I don't think so," Elizabeth says, surreptitiously crossing her fingers in a hopeful manner. "I think he's just trying to catch up. He missed a lot of work while Alma was ill."

"Yes," Rioko agrees, but she doesn't seem entirely convinced by Elizabeth's comment.

Luckily, Charlie provides a sudden and welcome distraction.

"Hey, Mom!" he calls across the yard. "When can we have cake?" 

* * *

The sun is setting and shadows are stretching long and grey across the street. Elizabeth is tidying the kitchen of cake-smeared paper plates and half-empty cups of lemonade. She can hear Patrick's voice upstairs, ordering Charlie to go and get into the bath.

Elizabeth takes the trash out. Her feet are bare and it still smells like summer outside, though the evenings are cooler and shorter now. She's replacing the lid on the trash can as she hears Richard pull into his driveway. She walks around the side of the house to greet him over the fence.

"Hi," she says.

"Hello, Elizabeth." He smiles at her, but he looks tired. "How was the party?"

"Fine," she answers, shrugging slightly. "The kids had fun."

"Oh," he says. "Good."

She watches him for a moment and feels despair and sorrow. "Richard..."He looks back at her with mild apprehension.

She sighs and shakes her head, giving him a small smile. "Alma told me to look after you," she says after a moment. "You'll tell me if something's wrong, won't you? If you need someone to talk to..."

He clears his throat and glances towards the house as though longing for a getaway. "Yes," he says. He looks back at her and he seems pale and worn. "Thank you."

She looks back towards her own house. "I'd better get inside," she says. "Patrick's trying to get the kids to bed. I'd better go and help."

Richard smiles. "Goodnight, then."

She rocks on her heels for a moment. "Don't work yourself too hard, will you?" she asks. She can hear the tone of pleading in her voice. "Nobody expects you to feel normal, after what's happened. It's okay to grieve."

She slips her hands into the pockets of her jeans and waits awkwardly, hoping she hasn't crossed a line.

Richard doesn't answer her. He looks down at the handle of his briefcase before he gives a short nod and draws a deep breath. "Goodnight," he says again.

Her heart sinks and for a moment she wants to apologise and tell him she won't try to meddle. She's prepared to take a step back and give him more breathing room, as Patrick suggested, when Richard meets her eyes again and says something which makes her smile.

"Thank you, Edie." 

* * *

"What were you and Richard talking about?"

Elizabeth props herself up on her elbows, looking over to Patrick's side of the bed. "Nothing, really. The birthday party. Why?"

Patrick shrugs, but keeps his eyes closed, as though he is too near to sleep to open them again. "I don't know why you like him so much."

"I don't know why you _don't_ like him," she says irritably. "He didn't show up today, anyway. You didn't have to suffer your way through any awkward conversations."

"I just don't understand him like you do," Patrick answers, sounding a little gruff. He keeps his eyes firmly closed.

"What's to understand?" Elizabeth asks rather sharply. "He's lonely, Patrick. He's had his heart broken. He's _grieving_. Just because you have the sensitivity of a cabbage -"

"Stop it," Patrick says, raising his voice to her and speaking angrily. He opens his eyes and even in the dim light of the bedroom she can see how angry he is. "I don't care if you're on a rescue mission, Elizabeth, but I don't want to hear about how I should be joining in."

Elizabeth bristles as he calls her by her full name. He's rarely done so, in the past, and the sound of it coming from him is cold and unwelcome. "Fine," she snaps. "I won't mention him again."

She rolls over and keeps her back to him.

After a moment, Patrick's fingers brush her back. "Don't be mad," he says tiredly.

"Are you _jealous_ or something?" she asks, refusing to turn and face him.

"Of course not," he mumbles. His fingers graze over her back again. "I'm just tired, okay? All those kids hyped up on birthday cake..."

She cracks a smile at this, but doesn't turn to let him see it. "I'm tired too," she answers. "I don't like you snapping at me and accusing me of things just because _you've_ had to chase Charlie and Sam around all day."

"I'm _sorry_," he says. He still sounds irritable, but Elizabeth figures it's the best apology she's going to get. Patrick rarely apologises.

She sighs and rolls over. "Me too."

"Can we just not talk about Richard Spier anymore?" He looks at her hopefully. "I don't like him."

"Well, I do," Elizabeth answers defensively. "And if he wants to come by for coffee or to talk about Mary Anne, then I'm going to let him."

"Yeah," Patrick scoffs, running his hand up Elizabeth's arm. "Mary Anne. Poor kid. What sort of father ships his child off –"

Elizabeth gives him such a dark look he breaks off immediately.

"Sorry," he says again.

She rolls over again, and this time she keeps her back to him. 

* * *

Sometimes Elizabeth wonders if she stays so close to Richard just to spite Patrick. She's sure that some of her visits to Richard's house would never have happened if Patrick kept his disapproving comments to himself.

Richard always seems glad of her company. When she visits him on Mary Anne's birthday, he shows her a photograph Bill and Verna have included with their latest letter. Mary Anne is seated on Bill's shoulders, her face photographed in mid-laugh. Elizabeth smiles and hands the photograph back to Richard. He tucks it back into the envelope and runs his fingers along its edges. She doesn't ask him why he hasn't visited his daughter.

She notices that all the photos of Alma have disappeared. She doesn't question that either, but she looks at the square of wallpaper above the mantelpiece and aches a little as she realises Richard can't even bear to look at his own wedding photos anymore. 

* * *

November arrives with low cloud and clear, cool air. Elizabeth leaves Patrick in charge of the kids and crosses the lawn to Richard's front door."What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" she asks, watching him make coffee.

He looks at her in alarm. "Thanksgiving?"

"It's less than four weeks away," Elizabeth says. "You're welcome to join us."

"I wouldn't want to impose," Richard says, shaking his head. He sets a cup of coffee in front of Elizabeth. He sits opposite her, looking a little dazed. "Four weeks?"

"It's the first of November, today," Elizabeth reminds him gently.

Richard rubs his jaw. "I hadn't realised how quickly time is passing," he says after a moment.

Elizabeth sees him glance towards the clock above the mantel, and wonders if it's simply because time is on his mind or because he and Alma used to smile from a frame hanging there.

"Thanksgiving," he says heavily.

"Patrick and I want you to know you're welcome to join us," Elizabeth says, talking so fast she almost trips over her words. "We're just having dinner at home, and my mom's coming from Danbury..."

Richard smiles. "That's very kind of you, Elizabeth." He clears his throat softly. "Actually," he says after a moment, "I've been thinking about bringing Mary Anne home."

The subject of Thanksgiving is immediately cast from Elizabeth's mind. "Oh!" she says softly. "Oh, I'm so glad, Richard." She smiles at him.

"It would be nice to have her here for Thanksgiving," Richard says. He frowns, looking apprehensive.

Elizabeth rushes to keep his nervousness at bay. "You'd _both_ be welcome for Thanksgiving," she says. "You and your daughter."

Richard's smile warms and he looks up at her. "Thank you," he says. "I suppose it depends on Bill and Verna. I don't know what their plans for Thanksgiving are..." He pales, suddenly. "I'm not sure if I have enough strength to entertain them myself."

Elizabeth laughs, and he smiles sheepishly.

"I'm a little afraid of bringing it up," he admits after a moment. "Mary Anne coming home to me, I mean."

"She's your daughter," Elizabeth says gently. "I'm sure they understand that she can't stay with them forever."

He nods, but he still seems apprehensive.

Elizabeth hopes he won't let his fear stop him."You'll let me know, won't you?" she asks. "If she's coming home?"

"Of course I will," he assures her. He looks worried. "I'm just not sure how to broach the subject. Verna's letters have never mentioned the possibility of Mary Anne coming home."

"Maybe she's worried you're not ready," Elizabeth says. "But you are now, aren't you?"

He fidgets for a moment. "I believe so," he says. He glances to the mantel again, and this time Elizabeth knows for sure he's looking for Alma's smile.

"I think you're ready," she says. "I think the two of you need to be together again."

He looks relieved at this, somehow, and he nods. "Yes," he says. "I think so, too." 

* * *

Kristy sneezes potato and snot across the table.

"Gross!" Charlie shrieks, and then he laughs hysterically. Kristy laughs back at him and jabs her fingers back into her food.

"Oh, God." Elizabeth runs forward with a handful of tissues and attempts to wipe Kristy's face. "Patrick!"

"He's upstairs," Charlie says, sucking a green bean into his mouth.

Elizabeth sighs and scrubs at Kristy's face gently. Kristy protests loudly and squirms around in her highchair, still reaching for handfuls of her congealing food. In the living room, Sam coughs pathetically on the couch.

"Mom..." he calls.

"In a minute, Sam." Elizabeth glances to the top of the stairs, silently pleading for her husband to make an appearance. He retired upstairs with a headache an hour ago, leaving Elizabeth with their flu-ridden children and a large headache of her own.

"Patrick!" she shouts upstairs, her patience with him thinning rapidly. She crosses into the living room and lays a hand gently across Sam's warm forehead. "How are you feeling, honey?"

"Can I watch cartoons?" Sam asks pathetically. He widens his eyes slightly. Elizabeth can't help but smile as he uses every trick he knows to get her to feel even sorrier for him.

She surfs through the channels and manages to find a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Sam burrows into his pillow and watches intently.

Elizabeth tidies up empty juice glasses and tissues and stuffed animals, listening to Charlie cough and splutter as he finishes his lunch. Kristy starts wailing angrily and tries to climb out of her high chair.

Charlie lifts her down carefully and leads her into the living room to watch cartoons with Sam, sniffing loudly.

"_Tissues_, Charlie," Elizabeth calls back to him. She clears the table and heads upstairs, feeling angrier and more miserable by the minute.

Patrick is stretched out on their bed, reading.

Elizabeth is too tired and stressed to scale her anger back. "Didn't you hear me calling for you?" she snaps.

"I have a headache," Patrick answers immediately, frowning at her.

"So do I," she snarls back at him. She heads for the bathroom and rattles around in the cabinet for aspirin.

"There's no aspirin," Patrick calls suddenly. "One of us will have to go to the store for more."

Elizabeth gives him a fierce glare as she crosses back through their bedroom.

He gives a slight shrug, as though not knowing what the problem is.

She slams the bedroom door behind her. 

* * *

Elizabeth drops aspirin, throat lozenges, tissues and mentholated salve onto the counter. The girl at the register gives her a sympathetic smile, but Elizabeth is too tired and worn to smile back. Soft rain is mizzling from the sky, which is low and grey. The trees in Main Street are mostly bare - just one or two leaves, shrivelled and small, cling vainly to the branches.

Elizabeth runs into Richard outside the bank. "Oh, stay away," she says, giving him a small smile. "I'm full of the flu."

"Oh, dear." Richard gives her a kindly smile, but looks pale himself.

"You're not in for it as well, are you?" Elizabeth asks, noting his grey pallor.

"No, I don't think so." Richard puts his hands in his pockets and steps a little closer to the bank, sheltering against the wall from the misty rain. "Verna and I have had a disagreement."

Elizabeth looks at him in dismay. "About Mary Anne?"

"Yes." Richard glances out into the street. He appears lost in thought for a moment. "Verna thinks it would be best for Mary Anne to stay in Iowa."

"That's ridiculous," Elizabeth says at once, her voice sharp.

Richard looks at her in surprise."Well, it is," Elizabeth says defensively, cursing her big mouth. "Mary Anne belongs with you."

Richard looks tired. He keeps his eyes on the rain falling into the street. "I don't know," he says softly. "Some days I hardly feel as though I can take care of myself. Maybe Verna's right."

"No she isn't," Elizabeth says furiously. She's vaguely aware that some of her earlier anger towards Patrick is now being diverted towards Verna, but she's too irritated to try and stop it or make sense of it. "You needed space and time after Alma died, Richard. That's all. That's understandable. This wasn't meant to be a permanent situation, and you shouldn't let Bill and Verna manipulate it like this. I'm sure Mary Anne's been a comfort to them, but it's time for them to realise she belongs here with you." She bites her lip, breathing heavily and wondering if she's stepped over the line.

Richard doesn't appear to be annoyed or upset by her outburst. Elizabeth waits for him to say something, but he's turned inwards again. A slight frown creases his brow as he thinks.

"I can be a bit abrupt sometimes," Elizabeth says eventually, giving him a small grin. "A bit bossy and a bit big-mouthed."

Richard smiles and shakes his head. "No," he says, "you're just what I need." 

* * *

Elizabeth sleeps in Sam's bed. She tells the boys it's because they're sick and she's there to look after them, but the truth is she's still too angry with Patrick to sleep beside him. Their argument has been amplified by fevers and headaches.

Sam snuggles into her, his head beneath her chin and his breath warm against her throat. He snores softly, breathing through his mouth.

Elizabeth strokes his hair and thinks about how much love and comfort she draws from her children daily.

Suddenly, she doesn't regret her earlier outburst at all. She hopes Richard can bring Mary Anne home. 

* * *

"It's Alma's birthday today."

Elizabeth looks back over her shoulder at Richard, who is sitting at her kitchen table. She had assumed something was wrong as soon as he'd arrived, but it's taken him several long minutes to come out with it.

"She'd be twenty five," he adds.

Elizabeth doesn't know what to say. She abandons the effort of making coffee and sits beside Richard at the table.

The house is quiet. Charlie and Sam are out with Ricky and Randy Jones, and Kristy is asleep upstairs. Elizabeth can hear Richard's breath.

"It isn't fair," he says after a moment.

"No," Elizabeth agrees quietly. She sits with her hands folded in her lap, watching him. She thinks back to all the times she sat with Alma, and how comfortably the two of them clicked, and she feels a lump in her throat as she realises what she and Richard have both lost.

She tries not to, but everything suddenly seems overwhelming, and she starts to cry. She presses her face into Richard's shoulder and he pushes his chair back so he can put his arms around her. He rests his cheek against the top of her head and she clings tightly to him and feels the way his breathing changes as his grief surges again.

They sit there for a long time. 

* * *

Richard declines Elizabeth's repeated invitations to Thanksgiving dinner. She doesn't push the issue any further, but as she and her family sit down to turkey and homemade pumpkin pie, she can't help but think of Richard and worry about him.

"Hey, Nannie," Charlie says excitedly across the table, "guess how many sleeps until Santa comes?"

"Too many to get excited about yet," Elizabeth's mother says with a wink. "Eat your vegetables."

Charlie grins at her and scoops up a forkful of mashed potato.

Elizabeth's heart sinks even further as she realises how quickly Christmas will be upon them. She silently crosses her fingers beneath the table and hopes Richard has Mary Anne back by then. 

* * *

Elizabeth visits Richard two days before Christmas. "Cold, huh?" she asks, unwinding her scarf. The wind has turned her cheeks pink and her eyes bright. "Did you speak to Verna?"

"I did." Richard smiles at her, but Elizabeth knows things haven't gone well.

She sits at the kitchen table while he makes coffee. "No Mary Anne for Christmas?" she asks tentatively. She's already figured that's the reality. Christmas is too close and progress with Bill and Verna has not been forthcoming.

Richard sits opposite her and hands her a cup of coffee. "Yes and no," he says after a moment. "I'm  
flying to Iowa tomorrow."

"You are?" Elizabeth asks in delight. "Oh, I'm so glad! I was so worried about you being on your own for Christmas."

He smiles and gives a slight shrug. "Flying on Christmas Eve. Not how I'd like to spend it, exactly. But I think I need to talk to Bill and Verna face-to-face."

"There doesn't seem to be much progress being made on the telephone or through letters," Elizabeth agrees. "I can't believe they're being so difficult about it."

Richard clears his throat softly and nods. "They don't think I'll be able to give Mary Anne enough attention." He looks worried, and Elizabeth jumps to defend him. It's almost an automatic reaction. Fierce protection.

"Nobody is going to love her as much as you do," she says.

"I gave her away," Richard interrupts desperately. "I _sent_ her away."

Elizabeth looks at him sympathetically. "It wasn't like that, Richard. Everyone has dealt with Alma's death in different ways." She notes the way he swallows at the mention of Alma's name, but she presses on. "You needed time to grieve, and think, and deal with things. Bill and Verna needed to keep Mary Anne close and see the similarities between her and their daughter. But it's time they let you and Mary Anne move on with things."

Richard drums his fingers gently on the table. "I suppose so," he says heavily.

"What's wrong?" Elizabeth asks in alarm.

He looks guilty, and a little embarrassed. "The thought of moving on scares me a little," he admits. "I don't want to leave her behind." He clears his throat softly and clarifies, "Alma, I mean."

"I know," Elizabeth says gently.

"I'm still finding things she left for me," he says softly, keeping his eyes down and away from Elizabeth's watchful gaze. "There are little notes written in the margins of her recipe book. One of her scarves was hidden away in the back of my sock drawer..." He clears his throat again, harder this time, and his voice sounds weak and cracked when he continues. "It makes me wonder if she was afraid I would forget her."

"Oh, don't be silly," Elizabeth says kindly. She smiles at him. "She knew this would be hard for you, but she knew you'd get through it."

"I don't know," Richard says huskily. "It doesn't feel like I am. It feels like I'm making endless mistakes."

"Richard," Elizabeth says patiently, "sending Mary Anne to Verna and Bill's was not a mistake. You needed time. You needed space. And now you're going to go and get her back." She smiles at him. "It'll be okay." 

* * *

Richard returns to Stoneybrook three days after Christmas in a bad mood. He seems relieved when Elizabeth shows up on his doorstep.

"Maxine's watching the kids," Elizabeth says. "I wanted to see how things went."

"They're being impossible," Richard says tightly, slamming the lid on the coffee canister a little too loudly. "They refuse to give her back. They say it's better for everyone if Mary Anne stays with them."

"That's bullshit," Elizabeth says, joining in with his anger.

"Yes," Richard answers.

Elizabeth watches the way he moves about the kitchen, his shoulders tense and his brow furrowed. He shifts spoons and mugs restlessly, pacing up and down."I told them I'd fight for her," he says. He presses his mouth into a thin line and shakes his head, pacing again, not looking at Elizabeth. "I'll get papers drawn up. If they want to embark upon a custody battle..." He trails off as the coffee machine starts spilling hot coffee into the pot.

"They can't fight you for custody, can they?" Elizabeth asks in alarm.

"I believe they intend to," Richard answers angrily. He rubs his hand over his jaw and turns back to the coffee machine. "I don't think they expect me to fight for her."

Elizabeth feels that strange surge of protection swell up inside her again. "Well then, they underestimated you," she says, lifting her chin. "What will happen now?"

"If they really want to do this, they'll need to seek professional counsel," Richard says. "Though I believe the advice they'll be given is to hand Mary Anne back to me." He sighs suddenly, and shakes his head. "I hope it doesn't come to such an argument," he says. "I don't want to be on bad terms with Bill and Verna."

Elizabeth thinks Bill and Verna are asking for it, but she keeps her mouth shut. 

* * *

Rain falls heavily outside. Elizabeth and Patrick curl in bed and listen to the water pour from the broken spouting by their window.

"You were going to fix that," Elizabeth says sleepily.

"Mm," Patrick answers non-committally. He rolls over and reaches his hand towards her, tracing the shape of her body through the blankets. "Any New Year's resolutions, Liz?"

She smiles in the dark and rolls onto her side to face him. "Lose weight," she says.

"Don't be stupid," he murmurs.

She smiles again. "Force my husband to fix the broken spouting."

"I don't think you can count that as a resolution."

She laughs. "Can so."

He growls and rolls towards her, his mouth finding the curve between her shoulder and her neck. His feet feel cold against hers and she shivers and wraps her arms and legs tightly around him.

"One more," she whispers.

"Mm?"

"Less arguing." She gazes up at him, suddenly shy about voicing something that seems to be becoming more and more prominent between them.

He catches a lock of her hair between his fingers and slides it straight. "We're not so bad, Liz. We're okay."

She feels close to tears, suddenly. 1975 stretches long and broken behind them, and she can remember too many disagreements and too many tense and sleepless nights. "Yeah," she agrees. "We're okay." She kisses him, and she can't help but feel she's lying to herself.

"It's the weather," Patrick says after a moment, as though sensing she's not totally convinced. "It's too fucking cold and miserable here."

She smiles and shakes her head. "Don't you remember summer? We nearly baked."

"That wasn't summer," he murmurs, kissing her neck. "One day I'll take you to California. Beaches, cocktails and sun."

She laughs. "One day when we're millionaires, right?"

He laughs and kisses her. "Sure."

* * *

**1976**

* * *

Elizabeth watches from the steps of the front porch as Charlie and Sam try to build a snowman. Kristy stumbles through the patchy snow with them, hindered by her thick jacket. She tumbles and slips about in frustration, yelling nonsensical complaints at her brothers as they ignore her and continue to scrape snow together.

January has been slight on snow so far - most of it has turned to slush and melted away into dirty puddles. The first proper fall doesn't happen until late in the month, and even then it's only a couple of inches. Sam and Charlie are determined to scrape it all together and build themselves a somewhat-muddy snow creature.

"He won't be very big," Charlie says, sounding disappointed as he steps back and looks at the pathetic heap of snow in the middle of the lawn.

"Why don't you get a tub and go and take some snow from Mr. Spier's yard?" Elizabeth suggests, keeping her hands wrapped around her coffee mug. "There's a plastic crate on the back porch."

Charlie beams and races around the side of the house with Sam hot on his heels. Kristy shrieks and totters after them.

When Richard pulls into his driveway ten minutes later, Charlie stops heaping snow into the tub and smiles breathlessly at him."Hey, Mr. Spier. Can we take your snow?" he asks, looking around at the scrape marks across Richard's lawn.

"You may," Richard answers with a smile. He spots Elizabeth on the porch and crosses next door.

"Hi." She moves over and he sits beside her and watches Charlie and Sam dragging the slushy snow back towards the heap in the middle of their lawn.

"How was work?" she asks. She asks it automatically, almost as though he is Patrick, and she doesn't feel embarrassed about it.

"Fine," Richard answers. "Though I admit I've been reading up on custodial law, lately, rather than the things I'm supposed to be reading."

Elizabeth smiles. "What's the verdict?"

"I think I'll be all right," he says quietly. He watches Kristy patting the side of the snowman under Sam's instruction.

Elizabeth watches him. "You will be all right," she assures him.

He nods and rubs his hands together slowly. "I just want Mary Anne home," he says. "I've lost too much time with her already."

Elizabeth watches Kristy run across the lawn again, giggling as Charlie chases her. 

* * *

"Did you see our snowman?" Sam asks drowsily.

"I did," Patrick answers, lifting him gently. "Come on, Charlie. Bed."

Charlie scowls and trudges upstairs, followed by his father. Sam is almost asleep on his shoulder.

On the couch, Elizabeth breathes a quiet sigh and closes her eyes, listening to the faint noises upstairs as Patrick puts the boys to bed. She smiles, fully believing 1976 is going to be a better year. 

* * *

In mid-February, Elizabeth goes next door with Kristy and announces to Richard they've been neighbours for a year.

"Time flies," Richard says, smiling. He kisses her cheek. "Congratulations on your Bradford Court anniversary."

Elizabeth laughs and hoists Kristy on her hip. "Thanks."

He smiles. "I'm about to call Bill and Verna."

"You are?"

"I'm going to try and talk them out of this ridiculous argument."

"Good idea," Elizabeth says.

Kristy squirms in her mother's arms and speaks crossly. "Claudee!" she demands.

"Claudia's not home," Elizabeth says patiently. She smiles at Richard. "I'm sure Kristy will be pleased to have another playmate."

"I'm sure Mary Anne would like a playmate," Richard says heavily. "I don't think she's interacting with many other children." He pauses, and frowns. "That can't be good, can it?"

"I think kids need to be with other kids," Elizabeth says. "Isn't there anyone for her to play with?"

"Maynard is tiny," Richard says, shaking his head. "There aren't many people there at all."

"Well, bring it up with Bill and Verna," Elizabeth suggests. "Mary Anne needs friends." She grins, and bounces Kristy gently. "And Kristy's right here, waiting for her."

* * *

It's almost a week before Elizabeth is able to see Richard again and question him about the phone call. "How'd it go?" she asks anxiously.

"As well as can be expected," Richard answers, shaking his head slightly. He sighs. "I can't seem to convince them Mary Anne will be all right with me. I'm starting to wonder if they can see something in me that –"

"Don't," Elizabeth says sharply. "They're trying to get you to doubt yourself."

Richard gives a little sigh. "Coffee?"

Elizabeth shakes her head and they sit at the kitchen table. She waits expectantly.

"They don't like that I've stopped going to church," Richard says after a moment.

Elizabeth tilts her head. She can vaguely remember seeing Richard and Alma both heading to church every Sunday before Alma got ill. She can understand why Richard no longer has any desire to go. There are too many questions that don't have satisfactory answers. She feels another pang of sorrow for him as she realises his faith can be added to the long list of things he has lost.

"Church seems..." He stops and clears his throat, shaking his head. "Sometimes I feel as though I should be more devoted. That I should believe Alma is happy and looked after..." He pauses. "I pray," he adds, "that she is kept safe and happy. But I can't seem to do more than that, anymore."

"I know," Elizabeth says, though deep down she's not entirely sure she understands at all.

Richard laces his fingers together thoughtfully. "I don't wish to use God or religion as a ploy to get Mary Anne back," he says, "But I'm not sure what I can say to Bill and Verna about this. I hadn't expected them to bring this side of things up."

"I suppose they think it should be an important part of Mary Anne's upbringing," Elizabeth says uncomfortably. "I don't know, Richard. Things might change, you know. Church may become a comfort again someday."

"Maybe," he answers. He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes tiredly. "Just when I think I have all the answers to prove I'll be a good father," he says, "Verna hits me with something I haven't even considered."

"I don't think religion will have any bearing on your ability to be a good father," Elizabeth says firmly. "Don't give up, Richard, and don't let Verna put you down anymore." 

* * *

March arrives with rain and wind, and it makes everyone in the Thomas household irritable.

Elizabeth tries to remain patient with Patrick as he drones on in endless conversations about basketball mergers. Charlie and Sam seem to have an endless case of the sniffles, and Kristy starts swearing.

Elizabeth has no idea where she's picked it up from."That's a bad word," she says sternly, shaking her head at Kristy.

Kristy grins up at her from her high chair.

Patrick trudges into the kitchen, looking sleepy. "Have we got any pop tarts?"

"Why don't you eat something healthier for breakfast?" Elizabeth asks. "Granola."

"Liz, I'm not even thirty," Patrick says, giving her a look. "The day I start eating granola is the day hell freezes over." He grins. "Pop tarts?"

She rolls her eyes and points to the cupboard.

Patrick's smile fades as he catches sight of Richard through the window. "What does he want?"

"Why don't you go and ask?" Elizabeth snaps. She pushes past him and greets Richard at the door. "Hi." She squeezes past him onto the porch. "Patrick's in a mood," she explains. "Mind if we stay out here for a minute?"

"No, of course not." Richard is smiling, despite the rain, despite the wind. "I'm going to Iowa next week. I think I've convinced them."

Elizabeth's mouth drops open. "You have? How?"

"I don't know." Richard pauses for a moment and then gives a little laugh, and it seems entirely strange to see him so happy.

Elizabeth throws her arms around him suddenly and hugs him tightly. "Oh, Richard, you have no idea how good it is to see you smile," she says. She kisses his cheek and leaps back again, too self-conscious to linger.

"Tell me," she demands. "What happened?"

He seems dazed. He keeps smiling. "I think Bill convinced Verna, in the end," he says. "Things were becoming so bitter between the three of us. He agreed with me when I said Mary Anne needed children her own age. He agreed that I could look after her." His smile falters for a slight minute. "I'll have to prove I can do it," he says after a moment. "Raising her alone is going to be so difficult, but if I –"

"You can do it!" Elizabeth cries. "And I'll be right next door to help out. I can sit for her during the day while you're at work."

Richard's expression changes back to happiness and relief. "Are you sure?"

"Of course!" Elizabeth says. "Charlie's at school for most of the day, and Sam goes to kindergarten. The girls can play together."

"Are you sure it won't be too much?" Richard asks doubtfully.

"_Positive_," Elizabeth says happily.

"There'll be times when you're looking after four kids, Edie..."

She waves his worries away and smiles. "Patrick will have to pick up some slack, that's all. Besides, I'm sure Mary Anne will be perfect. No trouble."

Richard smiles, and he leans over and kisses her forehead. "Thank you," he says. 

* * *

March 14 is a cold, clear Sunday. In the afternoon, Patrick takes Charlie and Sam to an empty lot on Burnt Hill Road to play baseball in the wet grass.

Elizabeth sits on the front porch and watches Kristy dig in the garden with a plastic spade."Dirt," Kristy explains happily, smearing mud on Elizabeth's jeans.

"So I see," Elizabeth answers, pulling Kristy into her lap. She looks up as Richard's car pulls into his driveway. She stands up hurriedly, clutching Kristy. "Come on," she says excitedly. "Let's go and visit Mary Anne."

It takes Elizabeth's breath away at first. Mary Anne is the image of Alma. She gazes quietly back at Elizabeth and Kristy, her head against Richard's shoulder.

"How was the flight?" Elizabeth asks.

"Fine." Richard holds Mary Anne almost reverently. He kisses the top of her head and hugs her carefully, smoothing his hand over the soft curls on the back of her head. "She's perfect."

"Well, let's hope it rubs off on Kristy," Elizabeth says with a rueful grin, looking down at her grimy daughter.

Richard smiles, but he looks tired. Elizabeth suddenly realises that everything has met at a point. She's spent so long worrying about him and so long hoping for this moment she hasn't  
really considered what things will be like once Mary Anne arrives home.

"Are you okay?" she asks Richard softly.

"Yes." Richard kisses the top of Mary Anne's head again. "Just tired."

"We'll let you both get some rest," Elizabeth says, watching Mary Anne's eyes close. "Do you need me to watch her tomorrow?"

"No, I have the day off. But if you could watch her on Tuesday...?"

"Sure," Elizabeth says. She smiles at him. "Happy?"

He smiles back at her. "Yes," he says. "I am."


	6. Distance

**Title/Prompt:** Distance  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG [swearing, non-explicit sex]  
**Word count:** 9708  
**Summary:** Elizabeth struggles to keep her marriage together as her husband longs for a life free of responsibility. When Patrick leaves her and their four children, Richard steps forward to offer her the same friendship and comfort he needed after Alma's death.**  
**

******Notes: **I am apparently incapable of writing polite word counts. Sorry, again! Part III in the Elizabeth-Richard series. Parts one and two are previous chapters: _Kitchen_ and _Grief_.  
I struggled with this one more than the others, because we're starting to hit canon here. I used _Kristy's Book_ and _Mary Anne's_ _Book_ for several points, but I'll warn you now that not everything matches up. I've tried to make it flow as well as I can, but those of you who know this canon particularly well will probably see some inconsistencies.  
Another thing worth mentioning is that I have a lot more time to cover in this story and the next story, so the months and years do pass quite quickly. I apologise if certain things seem a bit rushed.  
Thanks in advance to those of you who read this through to the end.

Thanks of inconceivable dimensions to LJ user isabelquinn for beta'ing.

* * *

**1978**

Snow is piling up in huge drifts on the side of the road and against the houses on Bradford Court. Elizabeth flounders through the highest mound of it near the fence between her house and Richard's, falling once before she finally staggers up to the porch and lets herself in.  
The relief from the wind and the cold is instant. "Richard?" She shivers and pulls her scarf away from her neck. Richard's house is warm and shut tight against the rising wind and the sharp snowflakes. Elizabeth glances out the window at the weather she just escaped from.  
Mary Anne runs in from the living room and beams up at Elizabeth. "Hi!" she says brightly.  
"Hello." Elizabeth scoops Mary Anne into her arms. "Where's your daddy?"  
Mary Anne points towards the living room and Elizabeth carries her through, still shivering slightly. "Richard?"  
He looks up from his desk in surprise. "Elizabeth."  
"Didn't you hear me calling you?" she asks with a smile, setting Mary Anne down. The little girl runs to the window and presses her nose against the glass, peering out at the thickly-falling snow.  
Richard shakes his head tiredly and stretches. "Coffee?"  
"No, thank you. I won't stay long." Elizabeth glances to the window uneasily. "This storm is going to be bad, isn't it?"  
"So they say," Richard answers, looking at the snow just as anxiously. "I'm glad I didn't have to go to work today."  
"Patrick managed to get to the office before they sent everyone home again," Elizabeth says. "Are you going to be all right here, on your own?"  
"I think we'll be fine," Richard answers, smiling at her. "We'll settle in and read for a while." He glances at Mary Anne. "Don't draw on the window," he calls.  
Mary Anne stops tracing in the fog against the window, but keeps her nose pressed against it, still peering out at the snow.  
"When do you think it will stop?" Elizabeth asks. "We got a lot yesterday, but it's been snowing since lunch time and it's all just piling up..."  
"It's supposed to last a while yet," Richard answers. "Is everything all right over at your place?"  
"Uh-huh." Elizabeth shifts the curtain aside to check on her house. It's barely visible through the snow. She can see the kitchen light on. "I should go back. Charlie's longing to get out and go sledding. I wouldn't put it past him to try and sneak out while I'm gone."  
"Call if you need anything," Richard says.  
Elizabeth looks doubtful. "The power's probably going to go out, isn't it?"  
"Maybe," Richard answers, "but the phone lines will probably be okay. Most of them are underground."  
"Oh. Okay." Elizabeth smiles at him and tightens her scarf around her neck again. "Anyway, I just wanted to stop by and make sure you and Mary Anne were all right. I'm going a little stir-crazy, I guess."  
"It's only going to get worse," Richard says with a smile.  
"Bye, Mary Anne," Elizabeth calls.  
Mary Anne waves, still distracted by the snow. "Bye-bye."  
Elizabeth turns and heads for the door, but a newly-framed photograph on Richard's desk catches her eye.  
"Oh!" she says with delight. "You had it framed!"  
Richard chuckles. "Yes."  
Elizabeth picks the photograph up to examine it. It's one she took herself, a few weeks ago. Richard had called her in a panic because Mary Anne's baby-sitter needed to leave and he was running late. Elizabeth had slipped next door to watch Mary Anne for half an hour, and had snapped the photograph using Richard's camera as Mary Anne had run to greet him at the door.  
"I don't have many pictures of the two of us together," Richard muses after a moment, looking down at the photograph. "There's nobody to take them."  
"I'll invest in a telescopic lens and snap a few through the windows," Elizabeth jokes, putting the photo back on his desk.  
Richard laughs and walks her to the door. "Thank you for stopping by," he says. "Are you sure you'll be all right over there?"  
"Oh, yeah," Elizabeth says, her voice sounding muffled as she pulls her scarf up over her face. "Charlie and Sam will probably kill each other and Kristy will drive me insane, but we'll be all right." She glances doubtfully out into the storm. "I'd better get back. Patrick's down in the basement trying to find batteries and snow shovels. I should go and help."  
"Remember, call if you need anything," Richard says.  
She nods at him and opens the door, bracing herself against the wind before she starts trudging back to her own house.

* * *

"I'm _bored_," Charlie whines, looking up at Elizabeth in the dim candlelight.  
"That makes two of us, kiddo," Patrick sighs, ruffling Charlie's hair.  
Charlie shrugs away from him, his temper too short to tolerate it. "When will the TV be back on?"  
"Not for a while," Elizabeth says, listening to the wind push up against the house. She feels cold and stiff and exhausted.  
It's nearing eleven o'clock at night. The snow, as far as she can tell, has not stopped falling, and the house seems to be growing colder. In an effort to stay warm, Elizabeth has made up the fold-out sofa by the fire, and everyone is heaped on top of it.  
Kristy is sleeping soundly, and Sam is dozing against his will. Now and then he stirs himself and sits up, too excited and agitated to truly want to sleep.  
Patrick sighs and stretches out on his back. "This thing's uncomfortable," he mutters, shifting around on the bed.  
Elizabeth silently agrees, but she doesn't want to give Charlie more ammunition towards his miserable mood. She curls up opposite Patrick, their children between them.  
Another gust of wind roars up against the house. The window panes rattle in their frames and the candlelight and the fire flicker as a waft of air manages to find its way into the house. One of the shutters at the back of the house bangs violently.  
"Dad," Charlie whispers after a moment. "Tomorrow, can we –?"  
"Go to sleep, Charlie."  
Elizabeth watches Charlie pout up at the ceiling.

* * *

Charlie's mood hasn't improved by morning, and Patrick's mood has rapidly deteriorated to match.  
"There's nothing to _eat_," Charlie complains. "I want _toast_."  
"You can't _have_ toast," Patrick says impatiently. "The electricity's out." He glances towards Elizabeth. "Give him some cereal or something."  
She glares at him, feeling tired and achy after a sleepless night beside three squirming children on the fold-out. Not wanting to argue and add to the tension everyone is already feeling, she pours out a bowl of fruit loops and sets them in front of Charlie.  
He pokes at them with his spoon and sighs, deciding it's not worth putting up a fight when he's been handed a bowl of colourful sugar and milk.  
The snow is still falling, though the wind has died down. The sky is low and dark.  
Patrick downs the rest of his coffee and puts his mug on the sink. "I'm going out to see if that shutter fell off. I'd better bring in more firewood, too."  
"Can I come?" Sam asks excitedly, wandering into the kitchen with bright eyes and tousled hair.  
"No," Patrick answers.  
"Wait until it stops snowing, honey," Elizabeth says, running her hand over the top of Sam's head. "Come and have some breakfast with me."  
Sam matches Charlie's pout with one of his own. "It'll _never_ stop snowing," he says dramatically.  
Elizabeth pours him a bowl of fruit loops as well. "Here you go, Toucan Sam," she says. Sam cracks a smile, and Charlie giggles.  
Elizabeth leaves them and follows Patrick to the back door. "Hey," she says, grabbing his arm, "can you try and act a little less like one of the kids, and a little more like someone who knows it isn't the end of the world?"  
"Oh, give me a break," he snaps. "You're not exactly loving this situation, either."  
"It'll pass a hell of a lot quicker if you grow up a little bit," Elizabeth answers, her discomfort rising and turning into anger. "The boys are offering enough complaints already. Can't you at least _pretend_ to be cheerful?"  
Patrick shrugs away from her and pulls his jacket on. "I hate snow," he mutters. He disappears out onto the back porch, grumbling to himself. The wind blows the door closed again.

* * *

"We spent the night sleeping in the armchair in front of the fire," Richard says, looking tired as he sets a cup of coffee down in front of Elizabeth. "I think Mary Anne was comfortable, but I certainly wasn't."  
Elizabeth grins and takes a large gulp of coffee, praying the caffeine starts its work immediately. "At least she was quiet, right?"  
"She was very well-behaved," Richard agrees. He glances through to the living room. Mary Anne is sprawled on the floor, colouring with a box of crayons. "I'm not sure how long it will last, given the amount of snow outside, and the lack of electricity. There was definite disappointment regarding the lack of _Sesame Street_ this morning."  
"At my house, too," Elizabeth agrees. "Kristy was very vocal about it."  
Richard chuckles and pulls his own cup of coffee towards him. "Is that why you were in such a hurry to get over here this morning?"  
Elizabeth smiles and shrugs uncomfortably as she remembers her argument with Patrick. "I guess so," she says.

* * *

Spring takes its time arriving in Bradford Court. Even Charlie, who had once declared sledding his favourite thing ever, is sick of the snow.  
He complains endlessly about wet shoes and cold mornings.  
"Maybe if you didn't go stomping through snow banks with Ricky, your feet would stay dry," Elizabeth says, setting his shoes in front of the fire to dry.  
Charlie shrugs his small shoulders. "I just want summer to come," he sighs.  
Elizabeth glances outside at the rain, which is slowly melting the last of April's snow. "Me too," she answers. "Watch Kristy, okay?"  
"Hm," Charlie answers, flopping down onto the couch. Kristy immediately scrambles off the floor and onto the couch to sit beside him.  
"Game time!" she declares. "Ball, ball!" she throws her arms up into the arm and beams at Charlie.  
Elizabeth leaves Charlie and Kristy on the couch, her son's protests fading away as she heads upstairs. She knocks quietly on the door of Patrick's study.  
"I'm going to pick Sam up," she calls through the door. "Charlie and Kristy are downstairs, can you watch them?"  
When she receives no answer, she opens the door to find Patrick reading the newspaper behind his desk.  
"What are you doing?" she asks, immediately annoyed. "I thought you were working up here."  
"I am working," Patrick answers, matching the annoyed tone in Elizabeth's voice perfectly. "I won't make a very good sports writer if I don't keep up with sporting events, will I?"  
"How is reading a week-old newspaper going to help you at all?" Elizabeth asks icily. "Watch Charlie and Kristy, will you? Sam's at Maxine's and it's still raining. I have to go and get him."  
Patrick rolls his eyes and throws the paper down, and Elizabeth hates the way he manages to make her so furious after she's asked for something so simple.

* * *

"Are you okay?" Maxine lets Elizabeth in.  
"Fine," Elizabeth answers, still sounding irritated. "Patrick and I just had words, that's all."  
"Oh," Maxine answers, sounding unconcerned. "One of those days, huh?"  
"Mm," Elizabeth answers non-committally, not really wanting to go into any intimate detail. "Did Sam behave himself?"  
"Of course he did," Maxine answers warmly. "They're just washing their hands. They've been painting models." She points to the table, which is spread with newspaper. Three small model airplanes sit with their paint drying.  
"I'm running out of things for them to do," Elizabeth says. "Thank goodness the weather is starting to brighten up."  
"I'll say," Maxine agrees.  
When Sam comes downstairs, he grins as his mother. "Did you see my jet?" he asks, pointing to the airplane. "It's a fighter jet."  
"No it isn't," Ricky says.  
Sam ignores him and reaches for the model.  
"Why don't we leave it here until tomorrow?" Elizabeth asks. "It'll be dry, then."  
Sam's face falls. "But I want to show Dad."  
Elizabeth sighs and carefully picks up the model within a safe sheet of newspaper. The paint still glistens. "Here, then," she says. "But your dad will be most unimpressed if you get any of that paint on the inside of the car. Right?"  
"Right," Sam says, holding the model carefully. He looks up at Maxine and says, in a very careful and practised way, "Thanks for having me over, Mrs. Jones."  
"You're welcome, honey," Maxine answers.  
"Thanks," Elizabeth agrees tiredly.  
Maxine smiles at her. "Don't worry, Liz," she says. "It'll be fine." She nods, and Elizabeth knows she's talking about Patrick.  
She wonders if she gives off the vibe of this argument being one of many, and that's why Maxine feels such a need to reassure her.

* * *

June passes smoothly into July with blue skies.  
Maxine lights a new cigarette and blows smoke into the air. "Have you seen _Grease_ yet?"  
"No," Elizabeth murmurs. She watches Charlie pitch a baseball to Ricky.  
"Strike three!" Charlie screams triumphantly. Ricky tosses the bat into the dirt, but doesn't argue.  
"You should go and see it," Maxine says slyly, looking at Elizabeth out of the corner of her eye. "John Travolta in very, very tight jeans."  
Elizabeth snorts and then laughs. "It's on my to-do list."  
"How are things with Patrick?" Maxine asks, muttering around her cigarette as she watches the boys running around the backyard.  
"Fine," Elizabeth answers. She smiles, and Maxine winks at her.  
"Told you," she says. "Told you it'd be fine."

* * *

Patrick's meal slowly dries out in the oven as Elizabeth sits her kids down to dinner.  
"What did you guys do today?" she asks, reaching over to cut Sam's meatloaf into manageable chunks.  
"I can do it!" Sam protests. He takes his fork and stabs heartily at his food.  
"Ricky and I are gonna play basketball with his dad tomorrow," Charlie says. "They got a hoop put up in their driveway. Can we get one?"  
"We'll have to ask your dad about that," Elizabeth says, wincing as she watches Kristy tip a spoonful of peas all over herself.  
"Will he be home soon?" Charlie asks hopefully, craning around to look at the clock. "What time is it?"  
"You tell me," Elizabeth says, watching Charlie crinkle his nose in concentration.  
"Nearly half past six," he says after a moment.  
"Excellent work."  
Charlie beams at her. "So he'll be home soon?"  
Elizabeth's heart sinks. "I don't know, sweetie. He's working hard."  
Charlie sighs and kicks his heels against the legs of his chair. "He's always working," he says heavily.  
Patrick doesn't come home until the kids are in bed. Elizabeth sits and waits for him until she starts to worry something terrible has happened.  
When he finally comes through the door, her relief overrides her anger.  
"Where _were_ you?" she breathes, greeting him at the door. "I was getting worried."  
He smells like beer and cigarette smoke. "I went out with the guys and lost track of time." He pecks her cheek and shrugs out of his jacket. "Anything to eat?"  
"That's it?" Elizabeth asks incredulously. She follows him, folding his jacket down over her arm. "Patrick, this has to stop," she says, sounding worried and desperate. "The kids barely see you at all any more."  
"I'm earning the money for all that food you just ate," Patrick answers hotly.  
"That's all you're doing!" Elizabeth cries. "You're supposed to be doing more! You're supposed to be watching cartoons with them and putting up hoops in the driveway for them..." Her voice breaks, and then to her horror and embarrassment, she finds herself leaning against the wall, sobbing.  
Patrick's anger immediately disappears. "Shit, Liz," he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, "It's okay."  
"No it isn't," she mumbles, leaning against him. "Don't dismiss it, Patrick. I don't know what to do any more."  
Patrick hugs her tightly and kisses her cheek and the side of her neck. "It's just work," he says softly. "It's getting busy, that's all. I'm writing bigger articles. I'm writing more columns."  
"I don't care," Elizabeth says miserably. She knots his shirt around her fingers as she clutches him. "Please just come home on time."  
He kisses the top of her head. "Okay," he says softly. "It'll be all right, Liz."

* * *

"It's embarrassing," Elizabeth says quietly, "how much we fight."  
Richard watches her silently, not saying anything.  
It's been weeks since they've seen each other. Their schedules conflict a lot of the time, with Richard at work during the week. Elizabeth often feels too guilty to visit on the weekend, knowing he's spending longed-for time with his daughter.  
But when she does visit him, she unloads everything.  
"Sometimes I wonder how much the kids know," she continues softly. "Charlie's bound to start noticing things aren't right." She inhales deeply, staring down at her coffee. "I don't know what to do," she admits helplessly. "Patrick has always been so easygoing..." She frowns down at the table. "The trouble is, he doesn't know when to stop being easygoing and when to become responsible." She rubs her eyes tiredly, and then smiles at Richard, shrugging her shoulders. "It'll be okay," she says bravely, hoping he'll agree with her.  
He just smiles back at her, and suddenly she's hit with relief, and the realisation that she tells him everything because he doesn't tell her lies in response.

* * *

**1979**

Elizabeth and Richard sit on the back porch and watch Kristy, Mary Anne and Claudia chat back and forth on a picnic blanket on the grass. The air is warm and the sky is clear. Summer feels as though it has already arrived.  
The girls are surrounded by a pile of Barbie dolls. After a moment's discussion, Claudia and Mary Anne start dressing and undressing the dolls happily.  
Kristy wages a fierce, plastic-fisted boxing match between Ken and G.I. Joe.  
"Dainty, isn't she?" Elizabeth murmurs.  
Richard chuckles. "Thank you for watching Mary Anne yesterday," he says after a moment. "I don't know what I'm going to do next week."  
"I told you I'd watch her," Elizabeth says. "It's not a problem."  
Richard scratches his jaw. "I feel too guilty, leaving her with you all the time," he says. "You have three other children to look after."  
"It's not like she's any trouble," Elizabeth says, motioning towards Mary Anne, who is sitting primly and quietly on the edge of the blanket, dancing two Barbie dolls on her knee.  
Richard shakes his head and sighs. "I'll find someone else," he says. He rubs his hands over his face, lifting his glasses with the backs of his fingers to cover his eyes. "I can't believe I slipped up like that," he says worriedly.  
Elizabeth interrupts him before he can get started on his well-worn rant regarding his unsuitable parenting skills. "It wasn't your fault," she says. "She seemed like a responsible sitter. It's hard, trying to find someone to look after your kids. It's easier now, anyway, with the girls in nursery school some of the time. And they start kindergarten in a few months."  
"If I wasn't so sure she'd hate it, I'd put her in day care," Richard says, watching Mary Anne and Claudia giggling as they strip the clothes off another Barbie. "But she's usually so relieved to come home, I don't have the heart to send her to another room full of strange children."  
"She doesn't seem to be coping that badly," Elizabeth says reassuringly. "She and Kristy and Claudia have become a lot closer over the past couple of years. And Mary Anne is shy, but she's certainly social. She gets along with the other kids."  
Richard smiles. "I know." He sighs and shakes his head. "I still need a sitter for her."  
"I'll watch her," Elizabeth says gently.  
Richard shoots her a small smile. "Thank you," he says, though Elizabeth's certain he'll be looking for another sitter by tomorrow.  
They sit in silence for a while, watching the girls play. Several times, Kristy attempts to talk Claudia and Mary Anne into something else, but they're too absorbed in the fashion show the dolls are now putting on.  
Kristy gives up and heads to the fence, where she starts to kick an old soccer ball at the palings, running back and forth to catch it on the rebound.

* * *

Patrick remembers their anniversary, and Elizabeth's heart swells. He leaves in the morning with kisses and promises to be home early. She watches him go, feeling anxious, not sure if he can live up to his word.  
With her kids at school or kindergarten, Elizabeth spends the day tidying the house and washing bedding. She alternates between cheer and worry. She's not sure what her emotions will turn to if Patrick is late.  
When she picks Kristy and Mary Anne up from kindergarten, Kristy sets to asking questions she has obviously been thinking about all day.  
"What's an anniversary?" she asks.  
Elizabeth glances at her daughter in the rear-vision mirror. "It means a certain amount of time has passed, and you can celebrate something," she says. "Like a birthday."  
"Oh," Kristy says. "Is it yours and Dad's birthday?"  
"No," Elizabeth says patiently, "it's our wedding anniversary. We got married ten years ago today."  
"Oh," Kristy says again. "Is there going to be a cake?"  
Elizabeth smiles and turns the corner into Bradford Court. "I suppose we could make one."  
Elizabeth drops Mary Anne home first and checks that the baby-sitter is there to look after her. Richard's bad luck with hiring baby-sitters doesn't yet appear to be over.  
"I can take her for a while," Elizabeth offers. "We're going to make a cake."  
"Fine," is the answer, and the college student flips another page of her fashion magazine.  
Mary Anne looks relieved. She slips her hand into Elizabeth's and they head next door together.  
"What sort of cake should we make?" Elizabeth asks the girls. They've both pulled stools up to the kitchen counter and are eagerly eyeing the large _Desserts_ recipe book.  
"Chocolate," Mary Anne says.  
"No," Kristy says, "vanilla. Wedding cakes are white, I know so."  
"Oh," Mary Anne says.  
"It doesn't have to be a wedding cake," Elizabeth says. "We could make a chocolate cake and then put vanilla frosting on it."  
"Okay," Kristy sighs, making it clear she's giving into a plan she doesn't really approve of.  
Elizabeth starts mixing the cake, keeping one eye on the clock. Charlie and Sam come home and dump their backpacks inside the front door before they race to the Jones' house to play basketball.  
Elizabeth lets the girls lick the chocolate mixture from the beaters as she smooths the top of the cake and puts it in the oven.  
"Did you wear a dress to your wedding, Mom?" Kristy asks, her mouth smeared with chocolate.  
"You've seen photos," Elizabeth says, pointing towards the living room, where she and Patrick smile down from the mantel. "Yes, I wore a dress."  
"You were pregnant with Charlie," Kristy says knowledgeably.  
"Yes," Elizabeth answers, wiping spilled sugar and flour off the counter-top.  
Kristy turns to Mary Anne. "Did your mom wear a dress?"  
Mary Anne frowns. "I don't know," she says. She turns to Elizabeth. "Did she?"  
"Yes, she did," Elizabeth says. She gives Mary Anne a smile, suddenly terribly sad that Mary Anne hasn't seen the wedding photos of her mother and father.  
Mary Anne smiles back, and doesn't appear to want to ask any further questions.

* * *

Patrick smells like chocolate cake and vanilla frosting instead of beer and cigarettes. Elizabeth keeps her arms tight around him, her heart still racing and her skin warm and smooth with slight sweat. Patrick stirs and rolls off her with a sigh, kicking the sheets out so they're not tangled around his legs. He keeps one arm stretched out beneath Elizabeth's shoulders, and she rolls and presses kisses along his bicep and up the curve of his collarbone until she reaches the warmth of his throat.  
"Anyone would think you're still twenty one," Patrick murmurs.  
Elizabeth laughs softly and kisses his cheek. "I am at heart."  
"Me too," he breathes, wrapping his arm around her waist as she settles her cheek against his shoulder.  
"Happy anniversary," she whispers, running her eyes over the lines of his profile.  
His thumb strokes down the dip of her waist. "Happy anniversary," he says, close to sleep. "Love you, Liz."

* * *

"What are you reading to Mary Anne?" Elizabeth asks, taking the cup of coffee Richard hands her.  
He looks at her in surprise.  
She grins. "I saw you through the window in Kristy's room."  
"You know, people have gotten into trouble for spying through windows," Richard says with a smile.  
"I don't care," Elizabeth laughs. "I like looking over and seeing Mary Anne crawl into bed at the same time as Kristy. It's a part of the nightly routine I go through. Though you make me feel guilty for not reading to my own daughter."  
Richard chuckles and shakes his head, looking amused. "It's Anne of Green Gables," he says after a moment. "It was Alma's."  
"Oh," Elizabeth says with a smile. "Does Mary Anne like it?"  
"Yes."  
Elizabeth sips her coffee, but puts it down again rather quickly. Her stomach feels queasy.  
"Are you all right?" Richard asks, watching her closely.  
"Just feeling a bit off," Elizabeth says, rubbing her temples.  
Richard looks worried. "You should go to the doctor," he says. "It might be something serious."  
Elizabeth gives him a calm smile. "I'll be all right," she promises him. "Don't worry."

* * *

Summer vacation has stretched on long enough that Patrick can notice the absence of his loud, grass-stained children as soon as he walks in the door. Usually Charlie and Sam greet him in the yard and beg him for a game of baseball, with Kristy rushing to fetch the bats and ball.  
He tosses his jacket across one of the kitchen chairs. "It's quiet," he says, leaning over to kiss Elizabeth hello. "Are the kids at Maxine's?"  
"No, they're with Mom," Elizabeth says. She smiles at him, but she's feeling nervous. "They'll be back tomorrow morning."  
Patrick looks at her in surprise. "Tomorrow? Why?"  
She takes a breath, feeling incredibly nervous. She knows this isn't going to go well. "I have to tell you something," she says, and she watches the expression on his face change from one of pleased surprise to one of wariness and suspicion.  
"What?" he asks. He pauses for a brief moment. "Is Charlie in trouble at school?"  
"No," Elizabeth says, answering defensively. She straightens her back a little and swallows, wishing Patrick would sit down.  
He stands opposite her, looking tense and agitated.  
She sighs and runs her hand through her hair. "I think I'm pregnant," she says. She waits anxiously for him to say something, silently praying he'll be happy about it.  
_Smile and kiss me_, she thinks desperately. _Please_.

* * *

Elizabeth feels stressed and tearful and worn. She sits in an armchair by the empty fireplace, watching Patrick pace back and forth in front of her.  
Both of them are tired, and when she looks at the clock, she's shocked to see how much time has passed.  
"I can't believe you did this," Patrick says again, shaking his head.  
"If you tell me it's all my fault again, you're sleeping in the car," Elizabeth snaps. "You did your part as well, you know."  
She hates him. She hates him because for most of the day she has held a happy little secret in close to her chest, and now all she can feel is stress and anxiety. She doesn't want to feel upset about another baby.  
"This isn't the end of the world," she says softly.  
Patrick shoots her a look of frustration. "Everything has just been set back five years!" he says. "Kristy will be nearly six when this kid's born. Everything we've been working towards..." He shakes his head and paces to the window. "It's impossible, now."  
"It's not impossible!" Elizabeth says angrily. "So we have to spend another couple of years with night-time feedings and diapers. That doesn't mean our lives are over."  
Patrick sinks into the armchair by the window and puts his head in his hands. "I never even said I wanted children, you know," he says after a moment.  
Elizabeth feels an ugly jolt in her stomach. She folds her arms around herself protectively. "We never had time to talk about it," she says stiffly. "I didn't exactly want to fall pregnant in college, did I? But don't you dare sit there and act like Charlie ruined our lives." She raises her chin and glares at him, but he doesn't look back at her.

* * *

Elizabeth sits on the steps of the front porch in the pink light of early morning, her bare toes dabbing at the dewy grass. She's still in the t-shirt and shorts she usually wears to bed, though she's not had a wink of sleep all night.  
She looks up as she hears Richard's front door open. He spots her as he reaches for the newspaper, which has landed in the middle of his lawn.  
"You're up early," he calls, smiling at her.  
She glances back towards her house before she gets to her feet and crosses to the fence. "Got time for some coffee before work?" she asks.  
His smile falters and he looks her up and down. "Are you all right?"  
She rounds the fence and he leads her to the house, looking worried and uncomfortable.  
As soon as she's inside, her resolve crumples entirely and she starts to cry.  
Richard looks panicked. "Is there something wrong with the children?" he asks, dropping the newspaper and taking her arm. He guides her gently to an armchair.  
"No," she hiccups, wiping her eyes. "Patrick and I have had an argument." She realises how petty and stupid she sounds, but she's had no sleep and all she wants to do is keep away from Patrick and his dark looks and blame. She wants to catch hold of the happy little glow again.  
Richard looks uncomfortable, but Elizabeth clutches his hands. "I'm pregnant," she says, "and he doesn't want another baby."  
Elizabeth knows, even as she falls apart in front of him, that Richard probably isn't going to cope well with this. She realises it's probably not fair of her to unload everything upon him, but for the first time she feels as though there is no one else. Her friendships with Maxine and Rioko feel stale and distant. She realises she has never confided anything to either of them.  
Nobody has managed to replace Alma, and it's been _years_ and Elizabeth wonders why she's spent them so lonely.  
She looks at Richard helplessly. "I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't know who else to talk to."  
"I know," he answers gently. He smiles at her. "I don't mind, Edie."

* * *

"_Mom_!" Kristy leaps into the middle of the bed, and Elizabeth cries out as the mattress lurches beneath her and she's jolted awake.  
"Kristy!" she gasps, sitting up and blinking against the light flooding in from the landing. "What's wrong?"  
"Santa's been! _Quick_!" She tugs at her hand and Elizabeth groans and eases her way out of bed, her back aching. Behind her, Patrick coughs and curses under his breath.  
"Hurry, Dad, hurry!" Kristy yells at him. "Come and see!"  
Elizabeth staggers to the bathroom as Kristy pelts her way back down the stairs. Elizabeth hears her giving shrill instructions to her brothers not to open anything yet.  
"We're going to have to keep this Santa charade up for years, now," Patrick says, sounding annoyed. He sits up and rubs his eyes. It's still dark out. "Charlie's too old, Sam's extremely suspicious, and Kristy's already asking questions. It could have been over, this year."  
Elizabeth ignores him.  
By the time they make their way downstairs, Kristy has ordered her brothers away from the tree to the far end of the room. She stands between them and the presents, her arms folded sternly. She beams as her parents sink down onto the couch.  
"Charlie, open the big one first," Kristy instructs.  
"I'm going to open this one," Charlie answers grumpily, ignoring his younger sister. He looks sleepy and tousle-haired. Elizabeth suspects he was awoken in much the same manner she was.  
The presents are unwrapped quickly with cries of joy.  
"Can I go and see what Mary Anne and Claudia got?" Kristy asks, clutching her gifts to her chest.  
"Absolutely not," Elizabeth answers, pointing to the clock. "You can wait for a decent hour, I think." She stretches and rubs her back. "What should we have for breakfast?"  
"Pancakes!" Charlie says immediately, looking up from a nest of wrapping paper.  
"Pancakes?" Elizabeth asks, wondering why on earth she asked the breakfast question aloud. "You're going to be full of Christmas turkey later on. You won't have room for it if you eat pancakes for breakfast."  
"Yes I will!" Charlie promises.  
"Me too!" Sam echoes, trying in vain to open something wrapped in plastic.  
"_I'll_ have room," Kristy promises. "Please? It's Christmas!"  
"You're only allowed to use that excuse once today, and that was yours done, okay?" Elizabeth says, tousling Kristy's hair as she gets to her feet.  
Patrick follows her to the kitchen and quietly takes the car keys from the hook by the fridge.  
"I'll be back in an hour," he says.  
She looks at him in alarm. "What?"  
"I have to go and get something." He winks at her. "Another present."  
Her anger fades a little. "Oh," she says. "What is it?" She glances at the clock. "Isn't it too early to go and fetch another present?"  
He kisses her cheek. "Back in a bit."  
"Don't be long," she pleads with him. "You won't be long, will you?"  
He waves over his shoulder and closes the door quietly behind him.  
Elizabeth watches him go, before Sam reminds her about the pancakes. She stands by the stove with an aching back and makes breakfast for her kids. They giggle and bicker about their presents excitedly.  
"Where's Dad?" Sam asks, licking syrup from his fork. "Is he working?"  
"No," Elizabeth answers, glancing through the window to the empty driveway. "He'll be back soon."  
"Is Nannie coming for dinner?" Kristy asks through a mouthful of pancake.  
"No, she's at Aunt Colleen's today," Elizabeth reminds her. "It's just us."  
Kristy pouts.  
Elizabeth is halfway through clearing the breakfast dishes when Patrick returns. Sam gives a shriek of delight and bursts out of the front door into the frosty yard with no shoes on.  
Kristy soon spots what sparked Sam's excitement, and Charlie isn't far behind.  
"A _puppy_!" Kristy squeals, following her brothers out into the yard.  
Patrick gently hands a squirming puppy over to Sam.  
Elizabeth goes to the door. "A _puppy_?" she asks incredulously. She looks at Patrick. "When exactly did we have this discussion?"  
"Oh, lighten up," he says breezily. "Look how happy they are."  
"Inside!" Elizabeth calls, realising her children are standing in the yard in bare feet.  
"Let me hold him, Sam!" Kristy pleads, following Sam back inside. They all disappear back into the living room.  
"How big is that thing going to get?" Elizabeth asks in a panic. "Why couldn't you get them a terrier or something?"  
"Because this one was free," Patrick says, shrugging and opening the fridge. "Bill's dog had pups a few weeks ago, and I asked for one."  
"Why didn't you tell me?" Elizabeth asks furiously. "Did you buy dog food? Did you check the fence for loose palings? Did you think about who has to train it and care for it?"  
"The food is in the car," Patrick interrupts coolly. "And it's the kids' dog. They'll train it."  
"Like hell they will!" Elizabeth snaps. "It'll be me! It's _always_ me! Cooking pancakes for breakfast and turkey for dinner, and wrapping damn presents at midnight and –"  
"Take your hormones outside!" Patrick snaps back at her. "It's Christmas. Lighten up, will you?"  
For a moment Elizabeth wants to punch him. She clenches her fists by her side and turns back to the sink to finish washing up.  
Patrick heads for the living room, and Elizabeth can hear her children chorus their thanks.  
"This is the best present _ever_," Charlie says in awe. "Thanks, Dad."

* * *

**1980**

"We're going to have to move the stuff out of your office, soon," Elizabeth says to Patrick one morning. "The baby's going to need a bedroom."  
"Kristy could always share," Patrick says pointedly. "The boys do."  
"Will you grow up, please?" Elizabeth asks furiously. "I can't believe you're suggesting our daughter make the sacrifice for you."  
Patrick turns back to his newspaper. Elizabeth glares at him, unnoticed.

* * *

Elizabeth goes into labour on a white morning in early March. She leaves a message with Patrick's office to have him meet her at the hospital, and asks Mimi to keep an eye out for her children when they come home from school.  
"Patrick will come and get them," she says breathlessly. "Just make sure they stay in the yard. Ricky and Randy Jones will probably come over, but they'll behave themselves. They're supposed to walk the dog, but they can just play in the back yard. Get them to throw the ball..."  
"We will be fine," Mimi assures her gently. "I will watch them."  
"Patrick will come and get them," Elizabeth says again, and she doesn't miss the way it sounds hopeful, rather than reassuring.

* * *

Elizabeth sits up in her hospital bed, David Michael warm and quiet in her arms. She traces the small details of his face with light fingers, listening to the small shifts in his breathing and the little grunts and sighs he offers whenever she disturbs him. She carefully coaxes her little finger into his tiny fist and smiles as she feels the strength and closeness of him.  
She looks up as she senses someone in the doorway, and can't help but feel apprehensive and angry as she sees Patrick slowly making his way towards her. He's holding a large bunch of red roses and for a moment she thinks about telling him off for spending so much money on something so frivolous.  
"Sorry," he whispers, leaning over to kiss her forehead.  
"Where were you?" she asks desperately. "I left you two messages this morning, and the staff here kept calling you..." Her voice cracks and she looks down at David Michael again, refusing to cry.  
"Nowhere important." He looks guilty. He kisses her again. "So sorry," he whispers.  
Her anger melts away as she watches her son sleeping. "It's okay," she answers quietly. It's not, really, but deep down she still has too much happiness to feel any true anger towards Patrick.  
"Is he okay? Are you okay?" Patrick sits on the edge of the bed, looking down at David Michael.  
"We're fine." Elizabeth suddenly feels teary. "I wanted you here..."  
He leans over and kisses her and he looks so wretched she cries for him, rather than herself.  
"I'm really sorry, sweetheart," he whispers. He looks down at David Michael and gently strokes his son's cheek with his thumb. "So we've got another boy, huh?"  
She smiles and wipes at her eyes, still cradling David Michael carefully. "Kristy will be disappointed."  
Patrick chuckles and shakes his head. "She'll deal with it."  
Elizabeth looks down at her son. "David Michael," she says. She looks up at Patrick to see his reaction, but there doesn't appear to be one. He never expressed much interest in what to name their fourth child. It had grown a fear inside her that seems like an ache, now. She desperately wants to prove to herself, and to David Michael, that Patrick is pleased.  
"Take him," Elizabeth says softly, passing David Michael over into his father's arms. She watches the way Patrick cradles him carefully and she reaches for tissues as her emotions spill over and cause her to start crying again. Relief overwhelms her as Patrick smiles.  
"You forget how small they are," he says after a moment. "Charlie was this tiny, once."  
Elizabeth leans back into her pillows tiredly. "I wanted you here," she says.  
He looks up at her and leans over to kiss her again. "I'm sorry, Liz. Really. I know I can't make it up to you." He looks at her despairingly. "Everything worked out okay though, right?"  
She wants to tell him how scared she is. Between all the events of the day, the distance between herself and Patrick seems wider than ever. She's not sure how those silences and spaces have managed to grow so large.  
She says nothing. Instead, she reaches for his hand, and he takes it carefully and gives her a small, meek smile, still apologetic.

* * *

David Michael is an easy baby. He gives his first smile to his father, and when he starts gurgling and laughing, his siblings chatter words at him endlessly, hoping to be the first to prompt David Michael's first words.  
Still, Patrick's temper seems to flare more and more often. "Does he _ever_ stop crying?" he asks one night, his hands over his eyes.  
Elizabeth drags herself from bed again and goes to soothe their son. She wishes Patrick would stop complaining. She wishes he'd take the time to look down at David Michael's face as he sleeps. She wishes he'd take the time to hold him and bathe him and feed him and play games with him.  
She's sure things would be better with just a little effort, but she's too exhausted to put everything in motion by herself. She shuts the door to David Michael's tiny bedroom and sits there with him, feeling tired and alone.

* * *

"Where's Dad?" Charlie asks through a mouthful of spaghetti.  
"At work," Elizabeth replies automatically, holding a spoonful of mashed potato towards David Michael. "Don't talk with your mouth full, Charlie."  
Kristy slurps a strand of sauce-coated pasta into her mouth. "Can you help with my homework, Mom?" she asks. "I have to write a story."  
"What about?" Charlie asks.  
"Anything I want," Kristy answers proudly. "Want to help?"  
"No," Charlie snickers. "I have _math_ to do."  
Kristy scowls at him. "So do I!"  
"Please stop fighting about who has the most grown-up homework," Elizabeth says tiredly, refilling Sam's glass as he holds it towards her. She glances at the clock.  
Patrick is late again.

* * *

Elizabeth spends a sleepless night in an empty bed, her anger turning to worry as Patrick's lateness turns into complete absence.  
"Here," she says, thrusting Kristy's school lunch towards her. "Janine's waiting outside; hurry up."  
"I can't find my other shoe," Kristy says, pointing to her feet.  
"It's under the couch."  
Kristy disappears and Elizabeth glances around the kitchen, checking for any homework or lunches left behind. She has a headache.  
"Got it," Kristy says cheerfully, shoving her lunch into her bag. "Bye, Mom."  
"See you later," Elizabeth answers, kissing the top of Kristy's head. "Be good."  
Kristy runs towards Claudia and Mary Anne, who are both standing several feet away from Janine, as though trying to pretend they are walking separately.  
Elizabeth immediately crosses to the phone and picks up the receiver. Worry is a heavy knot in her stomach.  
Patrick's desk phone rings and rings, and is finally answered by his boss, Bill.  
"It's Elizabeth Thomas," she says. "I know it's early, but is Patrick there?"  
"Is he coming back to fetch his things?" Bill asks. "They're in a box in my office."  
Elizabeth pauses, confused. "What?" she asks. "Patrick didn't come home last night. I thought..." She trails off. She doesn't know what she thought. She doesn't know where he is. She doesn't know why he didn't come home.  
The knot in her stomach unravels into butterflies. Her first thought is that Patrick has been in some sort of horrific accident. Then she realises she would surely have learned of this by now, and he's missing because he simply chose not to return home.  
The truth hits her hard in the chest and she leans against the wall, her hand over her mouth as she tries to control her panic. _He's not coming home_.  
Bill starts breathing heavily as he realises he's somehow involved in a significant, awful moment. His words start running together as he hastens to explain. "He quit," he says breathlessly. "He put his notice in and said he was heading west and yesterday was his last day. I figured you were all moving out there together; he never told me you weren't going..." He trails off and Elizabeth can hear him panting as he realises what's happened. "I'm sorry," he blurts. "I didn't know he was leaving like that."  
"No," Elizabeth says softly. "Of course you didn't."  
She hadn't known, either.

* * *

Elizabeth sits at her kitchen table with the box of Patrick's office things in front of her. Bill had handed them to her with stammered apologies. Everyone in the office had given her furtive glances, and whispers had followed her.  
Bill is the head of the local newspaper, and Elizabeth knows gossip is sure to spread.  
She picks up the photo of Charlie, Sam and Kristy. It was taken a few days after Kristy's birth. The boys have wide smiles on their faces. Kristy is crying.  
She drops the photo back into the box, on top of newspaper clippings and an old baseball trophy Patrick had kept on his desk.  
She looks around the kitchen and she realises that one of the things she's most upset about is that he never paused to give her a proper kiss goodbye. She can't even remember if he stopped to kiss her cheek on his way out. She can't remember what he said to his children, or what he said to her, as he walked through the door knowing he wasn't coming back.  
She feels sick.

* * *

Part of her wants to tell her children before the gossip spreads so far they hear it from someone else. But another part of her – the stronger part, the part that wants to hold them close and protect them from everything hurtful – demands that she wait, just in case Patrick comes home.  
When Sam asks where his father is, Elizabeth tells them all he's away on business. It isn't the first time they've heard something like this. Patrick would often miss weekends at home while he covered various sporting events around the state.  
Elizabeth spots Charlie watching her closely, and she defends herself and hides her fear by snapping at him and telling him to eat his vegetables.  
"Dad doesn't make us eat vegetables," Sam mutters, poking at his pumpkin.  
Elizabeth stares down at her plate, the sick feeling in her stomach still swirling around. Somehow, even when he's not there, Patrick manages to make her look like the enemy.

* * *

Elizabeth sits gently on the edge of Charlie's bed. Opposite, in the bed beneath the window, Sam breathes peacefully, one arm thrown back over his head.  
After a moment, Elizabeth reaches over and combs Charlie's hair gently back from his forehead.  
He looks like Patrick. He has the same frown, and the same nose, and the same blue eyes. She watches him sleeping and her heart breaks as she realises that if Patrick doesn't come home, their ten-year-old son will be taking on the responsibilities his father so often fobbed off.  
She feels, suddenly, that she has failed her children. That she has contributed to the loss of things like after-school baseball games and easy afternoons because they'll have to come home and be safe and look after one another. She wishes she had done things differently, though she's not sure whether or not that would have helped.  
She hopes Patrick is miserable, wherever he is.

* * *

"Let me take David Michael for the day," Maxine says soothingly. "It'll give you a chance to think."  
"Okay," Elizabeth says listlessly. She's sitting at the table again, Patrick's office things in front of her. She gives a slight shudder. "Do you know," she says, sounding slightly ashamed, "that I'd forgive him for _everything_ if he came home now?" She looks up at Maxine with watering eyes. "I hate him. I _hate_ him, but I want him to come home."  
"I know," Maxine says soothingly. "It'll be all right, Liz. It'll be just fine." She picks David Michael up and smiles at him. "I'll bring him back later, all right? Don't worry about a thing."  
Elizabeth lifts her head. "Maxine?"  
Maxine looks back at her with a kindly smile. "What is it?"  
"How did you find out?" Elizabeth whispers. "Who knows?"  
Maxine's smile falters. "A lot of people know," she admits, laying a hand on Elizabeth's shoulder. "You know what it's like. Gossip spreads fast in a small town."  
Elizabeth folds her arms on the table and rests her forehead down, blinking back tears. Maxine pats her shoulder again and leaves, David Michael babbling cheerily in her arms.

* * *

Elizabeth curls on the couch, swamped in jeans and one of Patrick's shirts. He nose is stuffed and her eyes are tired and red.  
She's dozing when there's a knock on the door. She jumps, and her heart starts racing. For a moment she thinks it's Patrick, and then she realises what a stupid thought that is. She sits on the edge of the couch, breathing heavily, too nervous and ashamed to answer the door.  
Maxine's words ring in her ears. _Gossip spreads fast in a small town._  
Elizabeth has no intention of entertaining pseudo-sympathetic gossipers.  
There's another knock, and then a voice calls out. "Edie, it's me."  
Her heart slows to its normal rate, and relief and gratitude overtake the worry and shame. She throws the door open and lets Richard in.  
"Oh, dear," he says, taking in her dishevelled state. He's still in the suit he wears to work, and Elizabeth suspects he's made a special effort to end his day so early, just to see her.  
"He didn't even say goodbye," she croaks, and she starts to cry again. "What am I going to _do_?" She sobs into his shoulder, and he somehow manages to avoid the stiff discomfort he so often displays when she gets too close to him.  
He steers her gently towards the couch and sits beside her.  
She huddles over, sobbing into her hands. "Everyone knows," she moans. "Everyone knows because it was so obvious we were in such trouble and we were so unhappy."  
"Nobody thinks that," Richard says gently.  
"They're all going to wonder what I did to drive him away," she sobs.  
"Nobody will think that at all," Richard says, and he sounds surprisingly stern. He takes her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. "Edie," he says, "when Alma died, you were the only one who never said it would be all right. Everyone else came to me and said it'd be all right; that things would work out and get better." He sighs, and watches her with a small smile. "I always loved you for not saying it," he says.  
She wipes her eyes and looks at him, not sure how to respond. Richard never speaks of Alma, and he never speaks with such truthful abandon.  
She realises, suddenly, that there is no better person for her to turn to.  
"I fell asleep hugging his pillow," she whispers suddenly, looking up at him.  
"I know," Richard says sorrowfully, and she _knows_ he knows, because there were times when his bed was suddenly empty too, and the smell of shampoo and warm skin on the bedding was the only real thing to cling to.  
She looks up at him. "So maybe it won't be okay," she croaks. "What happens next, though?"  
"You said it wouldn't be easy," Richard says gently, "but we would get through it. Do you remember that?"  
"Vaguely," she admits huskily. She gives him a small smile. "Was I right?"  
"Of course you were," Richard answers. He smiles back at her. "If anyone can do this, you can. I'm sure of it."

* * *

Elizabeth gathers her children in the living room. She knows they're suspicious and worried.  
She tries to explain things as gently as she can. She doesn't want to heap blame against Patrick, in case he calls. She _wants_ him to call and talk to them, and she wants them all to get along. But it's difficult to explain everything without sounding resentful. Patrick has left nothing for Elizabeth to list in his favour.  
She looks around at her children worriedly as she finishes explaining that he will not be coming back home.  
Charlie stares at the floor with a slight frown on his face.  
Kristy looks pale and upset. "Did I do something wrong?" she asks in a small voice.  
"Oh, of course not," Elizabeth says, reaching for her. "Nobody did anything wrong. This is just something your dad decided to do." She hugs Kristy tightly. "We'll be okay," she says confidently. "I'm going to get a job, and we'll all be okay."  
Sam leaps up, and his face is blotchy and red. "This is your fault!" he shouts at Elizabeth. "You were always yelling at him!" He turns and flees upstairs, and Elizabeth watches him go, too surprised and frightened and ashamed to try and placate him.  
Charlie drags his toe across the carpet. "It isn't your fault, Mom," he mutters. The tips of his ears have gone red, and Elizabeth knows he's trying very hard not to cry.  
Elizabeth kisses the top of Kristy's head and reaches for Charlie, brushing his shoulder with her fingertips. David Michael is asleep in the crook of her other arm, too tired to wake, even with Sam's outburst.  
"We'll be okay," she promises. "This is going to be really hard, and I need all of you to be on your best behaviour. But I promise you, we'll be okay."  
Charlie gives her a watery smile, but turns and trudges upstairs after Sam.  
Kristy gives a soft sniffle into Elizabeth's side. "I'll be good," she says. "I promise."  
"I know, sweetie." Elizabeth kisses her again and glances at the clock. "Come and help me put David Michael to bed. It's past his bedtime, and it's getting on for yours, too."  
Kristy follows her obediently.  
Charlie and Sam are talking in low voices, but Elizabeth decides to give them time. She passes their bedroom quietly.  
Kristy helps tuck the blankets around David Michael. She peers down at him. "Will David Michael remember Dad?" she asks.  
"I'm not sure," Elizabeth answers, knowing very well the answer is a resounding _No_.  
Kristy rubs her eyes.  
"Go to bed," Elizabeth whispers. "I'll be with you in a few minutes, okay?"  
Kristy trudges to her bedroom.  
Elizabeth checks on the boys. Charlie has slid into bed. He rolls over miserably and Elizabeth leans over him and kisses him goodnight – something he has been against for several years now.  
"No school tomorrow, okay?" she says.  
He nods tiredly.  
Elizabeth crosses the room to Sam's bed. He looks up at her tearfully.  
"I didn't mean to yell," he says.  
"I know," she answers gently. She kisses him and pulls the sheets up to his thin shoulders. "It'll be okay," she whispers. "It'll be hard, but we'll be all right."  
Sam hugs his pillow.  
"Night, Toucan Sam," she whispers, stroking his hair away from his forehead.  
He mumbles goodnight and she kisses him again and turns out the light.  
Kristy is sitting up in bed, waiting for her. "I really didn't do it, did I, Mom?" she asks timidly. "Sometimes I can be too loud and Dad used to get mad..."  
"It isn't your fault, I _promise_," Elizabeth says desperately, sitting beside her daughter. She hugs her tightly. "No school tomorrow, okay?"  
"Okay," Kristy croaks. She rubs her eyes, trying desperately not to cry.  
Elizabeth catches sight of Mary Anne crawling into bed in the room opposite. Richard sinks into the chair beside her bed and Mary Anne eagerly hands him a book before she tugs the blankets up to her chin.  
Elizabeth kisses the top of Kristy's head. "I'll just have to fill in for Dad sometimes," she says after a moment. "I guess you and I had better start teaming up against Charlie and Sam in baseball, huh?"  
Kristy looks up at her with wide, bright eyes. "Really?" she breathes. "Girls against boys?"  
Elizabeth kisses her forehead. "You bet."  
Kristy wriggles down into her bed, looking excited. "Okay."  
Elizabeth smiles and tucks the sheets around her. "Goodnight, Kristy."

* * *

Elizabeth sits in the middle of her bed, too drained to cry. She looks at the wedding photo on her dresser. She realises how young she and Patrick are in that photograph, and how far they still had to go before they really found out who they were. She thinks about how far they travelled together before they started growing apart, and how wide the distance between them grew.  
She stretches out on the bed and closes her eyes, breathing deeply. She's not sure if she'll ever get it confirmed, but she's certain Patrick has headed to California, and it hurts her when she realises he's gone as far as he possibly can to get away from her. She wonders why he didn't ask her to go with him, but maybe there are too many reasons and she shouldn't start delving into them. It would be so easy to fall apart and break under the weight of self-doubt, now.  
She can remember silly New Year's resolutions, when he promised to take her, and she can't help but feel such hatred for him as she realises he abandoned her and their children for an entirely selfish desire.  
_One day I'll take you to California. Beaches, cocktails and sun._  
And she had laughed. _One day when we're millionaires, right?_


	7. Writer's Choice: Trust

**Title/Prompt:** Writer's Choice: Trust  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG  
**Word count:** 9013  
**Summary:** Elizabeth Thomas finds herself torn between playing it safe and taking a risk for happiness.

******Notes: **Um, I lied. There's one more part to go after this. Mainly because when it was completed, part four was almost 14,000 words long. Not only is that an absolute headache to read all at once, LJ almost imploded when I test-posted it to see how I needed to split it.  
The next part will _definitely _be the last part, as it's 90% written already.

This obviously follows previous chapters, starting from 'Kitchen'. The chapters before 'Kitchen' are separate one shots, unrelated to this chapter.

Also: Canon. Canon, canon, canon. Um. Canon is woven into this. There are parts lifted directly from canon, but there are also parts that start in canon and then veer off to the side, creating anti!canon. I've introduced Watson way earlier than he appears in the books, and therefore he and Elizabeth have this whole history/relationship that's never mentioned elsewhere.  
BUT, this is fanfiction! :D If I stuck to canon, you'd really just be reading a BSC book.

Double also: Please consider this as like a preview or 'half' to the final part, which is yet to be posted. I think it will read better when they're together.

Huge thanks to LJ user isabelquinn.

* * *

**1982**

"Any estimates on how awful this is going to be?" Elizabeth asks Richard in a low whisper.

A smile quirks at the corner of his mouth, but he quickly hides it. "I'm sure it will be suitably cute," he answers.

"Cute, but awful," Elizabeth mutters with a grin, crossing one leg over the other and settling back in her seat. The seats around them are slowly filling with chattering parents. Down towards the stage, people are running about and pointing, last-minute instructions hastily being carried out.

Elizabeth's heart sinks as she sees her seven-year-old daughter, in full ballerina regalia, pushing her way through the remaining parents trying to find seats.

"Oh, no," she says. "What's she doing now?"

Richard cranes his neck and spots Kristy heading for them.

"Mr. Spier!" Kristy gasps, looking breathless and excited. "Mary Anne's sick."

Richard's face falls. "She's sick?"

"_Quick_," Kristy pleads, grabbing his hand and hauling at him with as much weight as she can muster. "She's barfed _everywhere_."

"_Kristy_!" Elizabeth hisses, mortified and worried at the same time. She shoves her coat across the seats she and Richard have been sitting in and hurries after them.

Kristy leads Richard around the curtain to backstage. Elizabeth hovers nearby. Mary Anne is leaning against the wall near the ladies' room, clutching her stomach and looking shaky. Her face is tear-streaked. She looks up at Richard and her lower lip wobbles as he kneels in front of her.

Elizabeth watches as the two of them talk back and forth softly. Mary Anne keeps her eyes down and starts to cry again. She shakes her head and Richard hugs her gently, talking quietly to her. Mary Anne pulls off her tiara and hands it to her father. He picks her up and gives her another hug.

He catches sight of Elizabeth. "We're going to go home," he says softly.

"Of course," Elizabeth says, feeling awkward and intrusive. "Are you all right, Mary Anne?"

Mary Anne keeps her face buried in Richard's shoulder, but nods slowly. Richard squeezes her gently.

"We'll see you later," Richard says.

"Here," Elizabeth says, holding her hand out for Mary Anne's tiara and tutu. "I'll take all that. Just take her home."

Richard gives her a relieved smile of thanks, and disappears through the rushing crowd of backstage adults to find Madame Minoff.

"Who should I give these to?" Elizabeth asks Kristy, suddenly unsure of what to do.

"I'll take them," Kristy says authoritatively. "You should go back to your seat, Mom, so you don't miss the show."

Elizabeth hands Mary Anne's things over to Kristy and finds her way back to her seat.

The seat beside her is never filled again. Now and then, when Kristy and Claudia are at the back of the stage and it's the other girls in the class who are twirling and leaping about, Elizabeth looks to her right and wishes someone – anyone – was sitting beside her.

Richard is her first choice, if only so she can lean over to him and whisper shared remarks regarding Kristy's exuberant _pas de bourrée_ movements, or the way Claudia incorporates a wave to Mimi into every dance step.

When the performance finishes, Elizabeth stands and claps with the rest of the parents, and she shoots Kristy a grin as Kristy waves merrily at her.

Elizabeth sits down again and feels a small glow of retribution as Kristy skips off the stage. She smiles to herself as she recognises the feeling. It's come up before – when Charlie made the school basketball team, when Sam brought home the top marks in his math class, when David Michael ran his first steps across the living room floor into Charlie's arms. She'd felt it on the first morning of her new job, and during the first meal she and her children had properly sat down to after she'd finally managed to fit into her new routine.

It all sums up to one thing: _Take that, Patrick. We're okay._

It makes her feel wonderful.

The girls all disappear backstage for cool-down exercises and to get changed. The parents all shuffle uncomfortably in their seats as Madame Minoff is handed a microphone.

Elizabeth glances to the empty seat beside her again and wishes she could share a groan with Richard.

"_Weren't_ the girls _wonderful_?" Minoff asks the crowd, her emphasised words echoing slightly through the crackling sound system. "That was our ninth annual Beginner's Ballet class here at the YMCA, as part of our yearly Summer Program..."

Elizabeth's mind wanders as Minoff drones on and on about the various programs that have taken place around Stoneybrook over the course of the summer. She feels slightly guilty as there are mentions made of baseball and tennis – two of the things Kristy would have _much_ preferred before ballet.

Elizabeth had waited too late, too sensitive of the slight balance in her bank account.

She's forced to pay attention again as the crowd around her applauses again. She jumps slightly and applauds as well, focusing on the two people who have joined Minoff on the stage.

Madame Minoff is positively gushing, now. "Without these two wonderful, dedicated people, our little school and the Summer Program classes would simply not exist," she says. "Audrey Peabody, of course, is well known to Stoneybrook as the founder of the top charm school in the state. She continues to push for excellence, grace and achievement in our young girls here in Stoneybrook."

The crowd applauds again. Elizabeth does so with a slight roll of her eyes.

"And without the generous contributions from Watson Brewer, we would not have the funding to run these classes for our girls."

The crowd applauds again, and the man on the stage gives an awkward little wave, looking slightly embarrassed.

The rest of Elizabeth's warm, glowing feeling is completely quashed. She watches Watson Brewer take the microphone, smiling as he tells everyone it's his pleasure to contribute to events such as this. She thinks about the extra hours she'd put in at work so she could just pay the joining fee for Kristy's classes.

She sinks down in her seat a little and sighs, looking to the empty seat beside her again.

* * *

Elizabeth opens the front door to see Mary Anne standing alone on the front step. Elizabeth doesn't need to look next door to know Richard's keeping an eye on her from his living room window.

"Hi, Mrs. Thomas," Mary Anne says, smiling up at her.

"Hi, Mary Anne." Elizabeth smiles back and steps aside. "Kristy's up in her room."

"Okay," Mary Anne says. She shuffles slightly and looks at Elizabeth's shoulder instead of her eyes.

"My dad and I are having a barbecue dinner and we wanted to know if you and Charlie and Sam and Kristy and David Michael wanted to come."

"Oh," Elizabeth says in surprise. She smiles. "That'd be nice. Are you feeling better, then?"

"Uh-huh," Mary Anne says, giving her a small smile of relief. "I was just nervous."

"I'm glad everything's all right," Elizabeth says. "Did you want to go up and see Kristy?"

"I have to go and invite the Kishis," Mary Anne says, looking over her shoulder to the house across the street. "Can Kristy come? Please?"

"Of course she can." Elizabeth steps aside again as Mary Anne runs past her, up the stairs to Kristy's room.

Elizabeth heads for the kitchen and waves at Richard through the window that looks into the Spiers' living room. He smiles at her.

* * *

"I feel terrible," Richard admits quietly, taking another stack of dirty plates from Elizabeth.

"Don't," Elizabeth says. "I drove her back and forth to that class enough times and never picked up on how much she disliked it, either."

"She was going to force herself to do it because she thought that's what I wanted," Richard says, looking guilty. He starts to stack the dishwasher.

"It all worked out," Elizabeth reminds him gently, handing him grease-smeared glasses one by one.

They work in silence for a while, listening to the kids running around in the backyard.

"So how was it?" Richard asks eventually, closing the dishwasher and turning it on.

"Cute, but awful," Elizabeth says with a smile. "I wish you'd seen it."

"Me too," Richard admits. "Did the girls enjoy it?"

"I think so," Elizabeth says. "Kristy says there's a video of the performance. If I buy it, I'll force you to sit through the whole thing."

Richard laughs. "Thanks."

"Including the speeches at the end," Elizabeth says, rolling her eyes. "The ones with the head of the charm school, and the millionaires."

Richard glances at her as he fills the coffee pot with water. "Do I detect a hint of bitterness in your voice, Mrs. Thomas?" he asks with a wry smile.

Elizabeth sighs and leans against the counter. "I always get the feeling women like Audrey Peabody look down their noses at me," she mutters. "Kristy's hardly a charming little lady."

Richard chuckles and glances towards the back door. "Kristy's perfect the way she is," he says.

Elizabeth's heart swells and she leans her head against Richard's shoulder for a moment, before she remembers John and Rioko are sitting on the back porch. She steps away from him again, not wanting to spark the wrong impression and spread ridiculous neighbourhood gossip.

"Watson Brewer pays for new auditoriums and speaker systems and teachers," she says, unable to drop the subject completely. "I had to think twice about the joining fee before Kristy could sign up for classes at all." She sighs and looks towards the back door, listening to the girls laugh and run around in the yard.

"You know what I think?" Richard asks quietly, gathering mugs onto a tray.

"What?" Elizabeth asks worriedly.

Richard smiles at her. "I think you should take your own parenting advice and _stop worrying_."

Elizabeth smiles back at him and gives a slight shake of her head. She helps him gather the rest of the coffee things, and the rest of her bad mood vanishes altogether when Richard bumps her shoulder affectionately as he carries everything outside.

* * *

The days turn to rain, and then ice and snow. Christmas edges closer and closer.

Elizabeth spends the spare time in her windowless office thinking about what to buy for her kids and who to invite for Christmas dinner.

She no longer feels guilty or uncomfortable about inviting Richard and Mary Anne, and Richard no longer feels uncomfortable about accepting the invitation.

Two days before her Christmas vacation is due to start, Elizabeth's desk phone rings as she's pulling her jacket on. She sighs and kicks her door closed, reaching for the phone. Sometimes Charlie calls, and if she ignores the phone now, she'll be wondering the entire drive home if it was him calling to say something is wrong.

"Hello?"

"Hi! I've been looking for you everywhere."

Elizabeth's stomach plummets. She sinks into her desk chair. "Patrick?"

"Maxine told me where to find you," he says. "I've been trying to call you all day, but no one is home. Finally I had the sense to see if you were at Maxine's, and she gave me your office number..."

Elizabeth's heart is racing. For a moment, all she can think about is the chain of gossip Maxine is likely to begin. She switches the phone to her other hand and swallows hard.

Patrick clears his throat softly. "So..." he says.

There's a long pause. Elizabeth swallows again, trying to think of something to say. All of her emotions seem to be fighting together, unsure about which one of them should be dominant.

"How are you?" Patrick asks after a few agonising seconds of heavy breathing.

"Where are you?" Elizabeth asks. The question leaps out before she can even think about it.

"Oh." Patrick gives an odd little chuckle. "California."

Elizabeth lets a slow breath out. She's not surprised. "I thought so," she says. Then, before she can help herself, before she can remember the countless times she's sworn to herself she'll never, ever break down in front of Patrick or beg him to come home, she says, "_Why_, Patrick? How could you leave us like that?" Her voice trembles treacherously.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "Really, I am. I know it wasn't –"

"Don't you dare apologise to me over the phone!" she snaps at him, sitting up in her chair. "If you want to apologise to me, you can do it face to face, or not at all."

Patrick gives another odd little chuckle. He sounds nervous. "I _am_ sorry," he says again.

Elizabeth brushes a tear from the corner of her eye and grits her teeth, desperate to avoid audible proof she's upset. Her emotions continue to swing wildly between heartbreak and icy rage.

Patrick decides to continue when Elizabeth remains silent.

"It terrified me, Liz," he says desperately. "Suddenly I was thirty one and I had four kids and a house in Smalltown, Connecticut. I couldn't do it any more."

"So you _left_?" Elizabeth asks tearfully. "Do you have _any_ idea the sort of damage you caused? Sam asked for you for _months_ after you were gone. We'd be eating dinner, Patrick, and he'd ask when you were coming home, and I had to keep telling him I didn't really know what had happened. I had to tell him you left us without telling us why."

Elizabeth can feel hot tears slipping down her cheeks, but she feels strangely calm and in control of herself. Still, it's gratifying to unleash all of the hurt and frustration that has built within her over the past couple of years. She continues, her voice a low hiss as people march by her office on their way to the elevator. "Charlie took over things like helping me with David Michael's night feedings and diaper changes. He gets his siblings ready for school after I leave for work."

"Liz –"

"Kristy refuses to talk about you at all," she says, cutting him off. "But she had nightmares after you left; scared that I'd leave and she and her brothers would be split up and sent away." She pauses for a moment. "Sometimes," she says, "I wonder if you're even _alive_."

"Oh, come on," he says, giving another small laugh. "You'd hear about something like that."

"Would I?" she asks icily. "Because it wouldn't really make a difference, would it?"

Patrick sounds annoyed. "Look," he says, "I called for a reason."

"Oh yes?" Elizabeth asks, wiping her eyes. "If you're planning on coming home for Christmas, don't bother. This will be our third without you and I think we're okay with it, now."

Patrick sighs, and Elizabeth can picture him perfectly, pinching the bridge of his nose or running his hand through his curly hair.

"I need a divorce," he mutters after a moment's silence. "I'm getting remarried."

Elizabeth's stomach plummets for the second time in five minutes. She feels her breath catch in her throat, and for the first time she realises how much she had been secretly hoping for him to return home.

"We don't have to see each other or anything," Patrick says. "The papers will be delivered to you. I just wanted to... you know. Warn you."

"How considerate of you," Elizabeth says frostily. She feels sick. She wants to burst into tears.

She wasn't sure what she was hoping for, exactly. She knows that even if Patrick _did_ come home, she wouldn't let him into the house. The divorce isn't what hurts.

"Don't you want to know how they are?" she asks desperately. "Don't you want to ask them about school, and friends?"

Patrick clears his throat. "I have to go."

"No," Elizabeth says, panicking. "Patrick, please... if you could just send them a birthday card, or call now and then to talk to them... I can't give them everything they deserve. I try, but I can't."

"We'll talk soon," Patrick says, his voice a little loud as though he can ride over the top of Elizabeth's pleading. "Bye, Liz."

"Patrick!"

He pauses, and the line stays live. Elizabeth is breathing furiously, and she can feel fire creeping up in her veins. Her voice has never sounded so hot and cold all at once before.

"I hate you," she whispers fiercely. "I hate you for doing this to us."

She can hear him breathing, and for a moment he stutters for something else to say, but she slams the phone down.

* * *

**1983**

The divorce papers don't arrive until mid January. They're delivered to Elizabeth's office, and she shuts herself away for the rest of the afternoon, staring down at them with a mix of humiliation, anger and relief.

When she gets home, she settles the kids with their homework and runs next door.

"I need to talk to you," she says breathlessly, looking up at Richard when he answers the door. She waves the envelope containing the divorce papers. "I need you to look at something for me."

He lets her in and she sits at his kitchen table, nervous and fidgety.

"Patrick wants a divorce," she whispers.

Richard sits beside her. "You've spoken to him?"

"He called before Christmas to... to say these were coming..." Elizabeth pushes the papers across to Richard. "I don't understand any of this. It's confusing."

Richard looks at her doubtfully. "I think you need someone who knows Family Law, Edie."

"_Please_," she says desperately. "Just check to see there's nothing complicated."

Richard sighs and unfolds the papers on the table. Elizabeth watches him nervously as he scans each page carefully.

"You'll have full custody," he says.

Elizabeth breathes a rushed sigh of relief.

"But Patrick won't be obligated to send you any support." Richard's mouth presses itself into a thin line.

Elizabeth rests her head against his shoulder in a brief display of gratitude for his disapproval. "I'm doing okay," she whispers. "It's not like he's helped at all over the past two years, anyway."

"No," Richard agrees. He taps at a paragraph full of complicated jargon Elizabeth doesn't understand.

"But he wants to keep half of the property rights to your house here. If you ever wanted to sell, he'd receive half of the money. And you'd need his approval before doing anything like that, anyway."

"He couldn't sell it from underneath me, could he?" Elizabeth asks in alarm.

"No," Richard assures her. "It'd have to be a mutual decision."

Elizabeth rests her head in her hands. "Asshole," she mutters, glaring at the papers. "He won't give me any child support, but he wants to suck every penny he can out of me..."

"You can fight it," Richard says, folding the papers again. "I think you should talk to a solicitor and see exactly what sort of rights you have. I'm sure he should be liable for child payments."

Elizabeth rubs her eyes tiredly. "I can't afford meetings with a solicitor," she says, feeling embarrassed and upset.

Richard drums his fingers on the table. "John Pike might be able to help you," he says after a moment. "He's in Corporate Law too, but he manages to understand this stuff better than I can."

Elizabeth looks at Richard doubtfully. "Really?"

Richard gives her a kind smile. "Just for a second opinion," he says.

* * *

Elizabeth feels foolish and nervous showing up on the Pikes' doorstep the next Saturday. It's raining heavily, and Elizabeth can hear children crying inside. She cringes and knocks on the door, knowing she's going to be a bother. She's just not sure she has any other option.

Dee answers the door. Elizabeth has met her a few times at school functions and fund-raisers.

"Elizabeth!" she says, sounding delighted. "Come in!" She glances out into the wet yard. "You haven't brought your children?"

"Not today," Elizabeth says. "I thought you'd have your hands full already, given the awful weather."

Dee laughs and rolls her eyes. "I wish the sun would come out. Come in." She leads Elizabeth into the kitchen. One of the triplets is still sitting at the table, sleepily slumped over a bowl of cereal.

"Coffee?" Dee asks.

"No, thank you," Elizabeth says nervously, clutching the envelope containing her divorce papers. She feels nervous and foolish. She's certain this was a bad idea. "Actually," she says, her voice quivering, "I was wondering if John could help me with something."

"Oh, of course," Dee answers, gathering up abandoned bowls of cereal and juice. "He's upstairs. He'll be down any moment now. Are you sure you won't have some coffee?"

"No, thank you," Elizabeth says with a smile.

The triplet at the end of the table gives Elizabeth a wary look before he pushes his bowl back and trots off to find his brothers. The noise in the house is deafening. Elizabeth can hear a television blasting the opening theme of a Smurfs cartoon, and there are children fighting in the next room. Elizabeth catches sight of six-year-old Mallory as she flees the noise and escapes upstairs.

It's a relief when John appears. He immediately turns the television down and tells Jordan not to set the volume any higher than its current setting.

Without the din of the cartoon, Dee can hear Vanessa and the triplets bickering. She marches into the room next door to sort it out, and Elizabeth and John are left alone.

"Um," Elizabeth says awkwardly, "I hate to ask, but Richard Spier says you might be able to explain some of the terms of my divorce..." She trails off and waves the envelope. She can feel her face going red.

John grins. "I'm not a divorce lawyer, I'm afraid," he says, "But I'll take a look for you. I should make it clear I'm not supposed to offer legal advice off-the-clock, though."

"Oh," Elizabeth says, her embarrassment deepening. "I don't want to get you into trouble. I can pay, if you –"

"Don't be silly," John says, waving away her offers of payment. "Just promise not to sue me if I give you bad advice."

"I promise," Elizabeth says, grinning at him.

He grins back and tugs the papers towards him. "Let's have a look, then."

"It's mainly the house, I think," Elizabeth says after a few minutes. John is reading through the papers, but the silence is starting to weigh on Elizabeth.

"I don't understand why he wants to keep it," she continues. "He hated living here."

"Property is complicated," John explains, looking up at her with a small smile. "It's attached to tax and finance... Property's always a big issue in divorce."

"It should be children," Elizabeth grumbles. "Part of me wishes he was fighting for them. The bigger part of me is relieved he isn't."

"That part is all very straight-forward," John assures her, sitting up straight and pushing the papers away slightly. "You'll have full custody. But you're also fully responsible for their financial upbringing, and that includes college funds and day-to-day living. Everything."

"I already knew that," Elizabeth sighs. "He never left any indication he'd be helping with that."

"You can fight it," John says. "I think you _should_ fight it. It's worth a try."

"I don't know," Elizabeth says doubtfully. "Once Patrick's made up his mind on something, that's it. He's very stubborn."

"At the very least, I think it'd be better to have the house fully signed over to you," John says, scanning the papers again. "Let me get in touch with Patrick's lawyer, and we'll try and sort something out."

"Really?" Elizabeth asks in relief. "Could you?"

"Of course." John smiles at her and slides the papers back into their envelope. "Leave it with me."

* * *

Patrick, however, refuses to budge, and eventually Elizabeth signs the papers anyway. Both John and Richard show open disgust towards Patrick's behaviour, and Elizabeth is grateful and impatient with them at the same time.

Still, she wonders why Patrick wanted to keep his half of the house. It feels as though the connection between them is not fully broken, so long as the house remains _theirs_ instead of _hers_. Elizabeth isn't sure whether to feel angry or relieved.

* * *

When Elizabeth works late, she double-checks all the locks and then pads upstairs to gaze at her children.

David Michael is asleep, warm, fed and clean, thanks to his siblings. He breathes loudly, one arm tightly hugging one of Sam's old teddy bears.

Kristy sleeps sprawled on her stomach, Louie snoring at the end of her bed. Elizabeth kisses her daughter's head and straightens her blankets, whispering curses at Louie as he wriggles excitedly, mistaking the shifting blankets for some sort of game.

Charlie usually tries to stay awake until Elizabeth is home, if only to complain about how difficult it is to get Kristy to go to bed at her usual time.

Elizabeth sinks onto the end of Sam's bed, rubbing the soles of her stockinged feet. "What did you boys do today?"

"Nothing much," Charlie answers tiredly. "I played softball with Kristy after school. She nearly broke Mr. Spier's window."

Elizabeth's heart stops. "She didn't, did she?"

"Nope. Missed, and hit the wall."

Elizabeth cringes. "_Please_ don't play softball in the yard. You're all too good at hitting it over the fence. Go to Brenner Field, if you have to."

"I need a new glove," Sam says, propped up against his pillows. "The stitching on mine is all coming out."

"I can't afford to get you a new glove, honey," Elizabeth says guiltily. "Maybe in a few weeks."

Sam frowns down at his knees. "We can't afford _anything_," he says after a moment. "Randy's got a new VCR, and we don't even have an _old_ one."

Charlie sighs and pulls his pillow over his head.

"One day," Elizabeth promises.

Sam slumps down against his pillows and pulls the sheet up to his shoulders. "It's not your fault, Mom," he says after a moment. He sounds miserable.

Elizabeth kisses the top of his head. "We're doing okay, Toucan Sam. Things could be worse."

"Yeah," Charlie says from under his pillow. "At least we can afford chocolate ice-cream."

"Exactly," Elizabeth says, patting Charlie's back on her way past.

She can hear Charlie's voice as she quietly closes their bedroom door.

"You shouldn't complain, Sam," he says. "At least we still have Mom."

* * *

**1984**

Elizabeth is promoted in May. She moves up a floor, to the head HR office, which has chrome and glass and new carpeting. She and her boss share a wall, which is patterned with a mosaic of clear and frosted glass panes.

She has a secretary, and she can look through the glass panel in her door to the main office, lined with desks and cubicles. The other windows in her office offer her a view of Stamford's business district.

She receives a pay rise, and the first thing she buys is a VCR. Charlie and Sam thank her a million times, and Kristy dances on the spot before she runs next door to tell Mary Anne.

"You're the best mom ever," Sam says, and Elizabeth goes to bed that night and cries with a smile on her face.

When she sits in her office and looks at the glass and the sleek lines of the new furniture, she swells with pride. She can feel it – the shift of everything around her – and it's like this is the moment she's been waiting for since Patrick left: The moment when it all starts to look okay again.

She's humming to herself when movement in her boss' office catches her eye. Usually, the blinds on the other side of the glass mosaic are drawn, but today, everything is open. She watches her boss greeting someone who looks vaguely familiar.

Elizabeth frowns and tilts her head slightly, trying to remember where she's seen the other man before. He's not very tall, and his hair is starting to thin on top. He has a cheerful smile, and Elizabeth watches him laugh and shake his head at something her boss has said.

She frowns again and turns back to the open folder of files on her desk.

After fifteen minutes or so, Elizabeth's secretary, Sally, comes in.

"Is that Mr. Brewer in Mr. Ryan's office?" she asks curiously, tilting her head surreptitiously towards the room next door.

Elizabeth suddenly knows the other man is Watson Brewer, and the reason he looks vaguely familiar is because he was at Kristy's summer ballet recital.

"Oh," Elizabeth says, glancing up. "I think so."

"Did you hear about him and his wife?" Sally whispers, her eyes widening now that her suspicions have been confirmed.

"No," Elizabeth says warily.

"They're getting divorced," Sally says, looking rather excited. "They've got two young children, you know, and there's no official figure, but everyone says he's worth _millions_."

"I don't gossip," Elizabeth says coldly.

Sally looks rather taken aback. "It's not gossip," she says, sounding affronted. "It's true."

"Well, I had people talk about me and my husband behind my back when our marriage fell apart," Elizabeth mutters, looking down at her paperwork again. "It makes a bad situation even worse, Sally. Leave him alone."

Sally reddens and goes back to her desk, but Elizabeth is sure the situation is far from remedied.

She shoots Watson Brewer another glance, and he catches her eye. He gives her a polite smile, and she looks away again, heat flooding her face.

* * *

Elizabeth is introduced to Watson later that day, by her boss.

"This is Watson Brewer," he says. "He'll be working with us on the Stamford Hospital account." He turns to Watson. "Elizabeth is head of our Human Resources department," he says. "You probably won't have much to do with one another, but it's a good idea to get introductions out of the way, just in case."

"Always a good idea," Watson agrees jovially. He shakes Elizabeth's hand. "Nice to meet you, Elizabeth."

"You too, Mr. Brewer," she says, feeling a little embarrassed.

He pulls a face. "Call me Watson."

She smiles at him.

"I only ever have to talk to Human Resources when something goes wrong," Watson jokes. "Here's hoping you won't see much of me."

Elizabeth gives a small laugh. "People only ever come in here with bad news," she agrees. "If everything goes well, we won't see much of each other at all."

Watson's eyes twinkle at her, and to her embarrassment, Elizabeth can feel herself blushing again. It's a strange sort of relief when her boss leads Watson away.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Elizabeth runs into Watson several times. He always gives her a cheerful wave when he passes by her office. She smiles and waves back, but she usually feels flustered and unprepared for his brief appearances.

Sally hasn't tried to draw Elizabeth into another gossiping session since Elizabeth told her off, but the whispers in the office haven't ceased. Through conversations overheard at the water cooler and in the copy room, Elizabeth learns that Watson's marriage has fallen apart. However, she has trouble discerning the exact reasons why, and when she finds herself wondering, she scolds herself for falling victim to cheap rumours and gossip-mongering.

She's forced to work late one evening, and the office dims and quietens around her as she frantically tries to finish off a batch of paperwork Sally had dumped in her office that afternoon. She can hear the cleaners on the far side of the office swearing at the vacuum.

She looks up as there's a soft knock on her door. Watson gives her a small smile. "Hello."

"Hi," she says in surprise. She glances to the room next door. "Mr. Ryan's not in."

"No, I see that." Watson smiles again. "I thought I'd stop by and see him, but it appears I'm too late."

Elizabeth nods and swallows nervously. After a moment she motions to the seat opposite her, feeling embarrassed for not doing it sooner. "How are things with the hospital going?" she asks.

"Very well," Watson says, sounding pleased. "You haven't seen me, after all, so no complaints have been rolling in. Am I right?"

Elizabeth gives a small laugh. "I suppose so."

Watson smiles and motions to the paperwork. "What's kept you so late?"

"Oh, just a few things I've been putting off," Elizabeth says. She quickly signs the last paper and drops it into her 'out' tray. "I'm finished now. I should head home."

Watson glances to the photos scattered across her desk. "Your children?"

"Yes," Elizabeth answers, tidying the rest of her things away. "Charlie has just turned fourteen, Sam is about to turn twelve, Kristy will be ten in August, and David Michael is four." She pauses for a moment and then flashes Watson a smile. "I'm not sure where time goes."

Watson chuckles. "I know what you mean. My daughter is three. My son is yet to have his first birthday, but he's still growing far too quickly."

He stands, and Elizabeth gathers the rest of her things. They walk together to the elevator, and Elizabeth feels an uncomfortable prickle as two members of the cleaning team huddle together and whisper furtively. She hears Watson's name quite clearly.

He clears his throat quietly, looking troubled, and presses the button for the elevator. Elizabeth stands uncomfortably by his side.

"It gets better," she says suddenly. She turns to him and gives him a small, embarrassed smile. "The whispering, I mean. It stops eventually."

Watson looks at her in surprise, and Elizabeth suddenly has the impression she's put her foot in her mouth. She silently curses her tendency to speak before thinking.

But he smiles, and though he's smiled before, Elizabeth suddenly feels that this one is genuine, and that there's no mask or professionalism between either of them at that moment.

"So I've heard," he says. "Thank you."

She smiles back at him sheepishly.

When the elevator arrives, Watson steps back and indicates that Elizabeth should step ahead of him. She smiles again and does so. He follows her quietly and presses the button for the ground floor.

It is just a simple, polite little action, but somehow it reminds Elizabeth of Richard, and this immediately causes her to warm further to Watson. She glances at him as the elevator sweeps downwards, and a warm flutter of butterflies rises up in her stomach.

* * *

"You're not driving me all the way out here to yell at me for something, are you?" Charlie asks nervously, glancing sideways at his mother from the passenger seat.

Elizabeth raises her eyebrow. "Why, what have you done?"

"Nothing," Charlie answers innocently.

Elizabeth grins and steers the car to the side of the road, letting it coast to a stop on the grassy shoulder. Burnt Hill Road's paved surface ended a few miles back, and she and Charlie are surrounded by open paddocks and farmland. The road is still smooth, but dust swirls from its surface in the slight breeze.

"I _may_ have told Kristy a few lies about the hot school lunches," Charlie says, obviously figuring he's in trouble for something.

"Like what?" Elizabeth asks in amusement.

Charlie shrugs and grins, avoiding Elizabeth's eyes. "Just gross stuff."

Elizabeth sighs and clicks her fingers to attract Charlie's attention. "First gear," she says, shifting the car into first. "Second, third, fourth. You want to push the clutch in when you change gears, and ease off on the gas. I'm going to drive up the road again, and I want you to watch how I do it, okay?"

Charlie's mouth drops open and he squirms excitedly in his seat. "You're teaching me to drive?"

"Someone has to," Elizabeth answers. She gives Charlie a severe look. "You're fourteen," she says, "so you're _way_ too young to drive legally. I'm teaching you this under the condition you never, ever do anything to cause me to distrust you when it comes to this car. Got it?"

"Promise," Charlie declares, crossing an X over his heart. "Show me the gears again, Mom?"

Elizabeth shifts the car into gear again and eases back onto the road, taking her time with the gas and the clutch so Charlie can see what she's doing. "I learned to drive when I was twelve," she says. "My father taught me, and he was an awful teacher. He yelled at me when I got things wrong, and made me feel terrible about it."

"Maybe all dads do that sort of stuff," Charlie reasons quietly.

Elizabeth reaches over and ruffles his hair gently.

* * *

The evenings are drawing out. Elizabeth finds she has time to play in the yard with her kids when she gets home from work. They spend warm nights throwing tennis balls for Louie, or having their meals at the table on the back lawn.

When it gets dark, Elizabeth sits on the front porch and enjoys her own company for a while. Louie usually sits at her feet, licking her ankles.

Sometimes Richard comes over and sits with her, his shadow stretching out ahead of the light cast back from his house.

"I like it when you come over," Elizabeth says to him one night, her voice quiet. "I don't see you much any more."

"Well, you're too busy getting promotions and leading your company into big accounts with Stamford Hospital."

"Ha," Elizabeth scoffs quietly. "If my name's attached to that at all, it's by a very tenuous link."

But she smiles and looks down at her hands, pleased and self-conscious.

Louie trots up to them and noses around for affection.

"Oh, hello, Louie," Richard sighs, giving Louie a brief scratch behind the ears.

Louie wags his tail in appreciation and then flops down beside Elizabeth, knowing better than to push the issue by rolling up against Richard, or panting his doggy breath into his face.

Elizabeth pats Louie gently. "How was work today?" she asks Richard.

"No different to any other day."

Elizabeth gives a soft laugh. "You sound grumpy, Mr. Spier."

"I am grumpy," Richard admits, rubbing his hands over his face. "My secretary is trying to set me up on a date with one of her friends, and I'm running out of excuses."

Elizabeth looks at him for a moment. "Is that really so terrible?" she asks with a small smile.

"Don't you start," Richard says, sounding annoyed. "Everyone keeps telling me it's been nine years since Alma died, as though there's some sort of time limit on things."

"I didn't mean that, Richard," Elizabeth says, nudging him gently.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, listening to the sprinklers ticking and spraying along Bradford Court.

"You know," Elizabeth says after several minutes of silence, "the more time that passes, the more I realise Patrick and I never even came close to what you and Alma had." She focuses on scratching Louie behind his ears, trying to find the right words for what she wants to say.

Richard is watching her uneasily, as though expecting her to talk him into dating someone new.

"It's been nine years and you still love her so much," Elizabeth says, frowning slightly. "It's only been four years since Patrick left and I don't miss him at all."

"That's different," Richard says quietly. "He didn't really leave you any reason to miss him."

"But that's what I mean," Elizabeth says desperately. "I've never had that. I used to think Patrick was my soul mate, and now I can see how wrong I was. We had fun, and I loved him, and he gave me four beautiful children, but he wasn't my soul mate." She rests her head against Richard's shoulder. "Alma was your soul mate. I'm starting to think I'll never have a chance to see what that's like."

Richard fidgets for a moment. "Don't give up," he says. "I used to think there was only one person for everyone, but now it seems like a very strange, lonely belief."

Elizabeth sighs quietly and closes her eyes. "Maybe there's no such thing as soul mates," she admits.

"I wouldn't say that," Richard answers. "I think there are people you have profound connections with. I think everyone will meet three or four people in their lives; irreplaceable people whom they love."

After a moment, he kisses the top of Elizabeth's head, and then clears his throat awkwardly. She smiles.

"I like that idea," she says.

* * *

Elizabeth looks up at the gentle tap on her door, expecting to see Sally or Mr. Ryan. She's surprised, and inexplicably pleased, when Watson Brewer gives her an awkward little smile and steps into her office.

"Hello," he says. "Do you mind?" He points to her door and she smiles and shakes her head. He shuts it quietly and the noise of the office outside dies away.

"I came to see Philip, but he's not here," Watson says, nodding towards Mr. Ryan's office.

Elizabeth smiles and shrugs. Her throat feels like it's closed up. "He's ill," she says, and she clears her throat, embarrassed at the rough, uneven sound of her voice.

"Well, it doesn't really matter," Watson says with a smile. "I wanted to talk to you for a moment, if I may."

"Is something wrong?" Elizabeth asks. Her heart starts pounding as she wonders if she's forgotten to sign some form, or neglected to notice that tensions between all of the employees are running dangerously high.

"Oh, no," Watson says, sitting opposite her. He picks nervously at his sleeve and then clenches his fingers as though consciously trying to stop the habit. "I was just wondering if you might like to have dinner with me one night."

Elizabeth blinks. "Me?" she asks. She feels blood rush to her face and she stammers to save herself, but nothing comes out. Finally, she blurts the first words that occur to her. "I can't."

"Oh." Watson's face falls.

"No!" Elizabeth says desperately. "I mean, you're lovely, Watson, but I can't really think about dating right now... I mean..." She's panicking. She avoids his face and focuses instead on the photograph of her four children gathered happily around Louie. "I have four kids," she says, anxious to explain to him. "I have to put them first."

Watson smiles. "Of course," he says.

Guilt hits Elizabeth, and then, maybe, just a tiny bit of frustration and resentment. "Maybe lunch?" she asks suddenly. She gives Watson a nervous smile. "Maybe we could have lunch."

He smiles back at her. "Perfect," he says.

* * *

"We just drifted apart," Watson says. "We're still friends, of course. Don't believe everything you hear." His eyes twinkle, and Elizabeth smiles at him.

"It's nice that you and Lisa are still friends," she says. She leans back slightly as the waitress clears their empty plates.

"It makes it easier on the children," Watson agrees. "They're both so young. Too young to understand, of course."

"It's nice they've stayed in Stoneybrook," Elizabeth says, aware she sounds slightly wistful. "My husband..." She trails off and clears her throat. "My _ex_-husband... He lives in California. No phone calls, or birthday cards..." She frowns down at the table. "It's very difficult, trying to explain why he did that, and why he continues to distance himself from us. I don't even know the reasons myself, but children so often want answers to things that can't be explained." She trails her finger through a few spilled grains of salt.

"It must have hurt," Watson says sympathetically.

Elizabeth nods and keeps her eyes down. "Watson," she says slowly, "I don't think I can do this." She bites her lip and glances up at him before she fixes her attention back on her mineral water. "I finally feel like things are starting to get back together again... My kids are happy... I can't do anything that might lead to new disappointment."

"I understand that," Watson says, leaning forward a little. "Of course, it's a little early to be calling me a disappointment, isn't it?"

Elizabeth looks up, flustered, and he smiles at her.

"I think it takes more than one lunch date before an assumption like that can be made," he says.

"I wasn't saying that," Elizabeth says desperately. "I didn't mean you were –"

He chuckles, and she gives him a sheepish smile.

"I just need to be careful," she says.

"I know," he agrees. He smiles at her again. "Elizabeth, the ink on my divorce papers is barely dry. Taking things slowly is a good idea for the both of us."

Elizabeth shifts in her seat. "Slowly," she agrees. "Okay."

* * *

Elizabeth lies awake and listens to the rain spilling from the broken guttering. She looks over to the empty side of the bed beside her and she realises, as though understanding it for the first time, how lonely she's allowed herself to become.

She and Maxine have drifted apart since Elizabeth's divorce. Maxine's pleasure for rumour and gossip overwrote the trust Elizabeth thought they held between them.

Rioko Kishi is friendly, but Elizabeth can't help but feel she harbours some sort of disapproval for the way Elizabeth allows her children to behave. Janine is quiet and studious, and Elizabeth knows every effort is being made to shape Claudia into a similar little bookworm. Elizabeth's children are grass-stained and dirt-scuffed and loud.

She has Richard, of course, and she loves him dearly, but her relationship with him isn't light enough to ease her worries all of the time. What she has with Richard is deep, and troubled. There are painful histories between them that link them better than anything most other friendships are built on.

She knows he's stern, and strict, and that he worries about what other people think of him. Even after all this time, she can't seem to ease any of those things. But he's different with her, and so she allows herself to forget it and simply enjoy the side of him other people so rarely see. Still, it's there, and somehow the fact that Richard is different with her separates her from everyone else they mutually know.

She sighs and rolls over, pulling a pillow into her arms and burying her face in it. Her thoughts turn to Watson, and she finds herself smiling, though a nervous flutter of anxiety sweeps through her.  
She's being desperately cautious with him. He doesn't seem to mind. He understands her desire to protect her children from further hurt and disruption. The thought of getting close to him frightens her a little, but at the same time, she finds herself secretly longing for it.

* * *

The first time Watson kisses her, Elizabeth doesn't feel the same fiery passion she felt the first time Patrick kissed her.

But she _does_ feel a deep, hot jolt in her stomach, and a pleasant shiver runs along her spine. When Watson smiles at her, she breathes his name softly and takes his hand.

She can feel her anxiety and reluctance being swept aside.

* * *

**1985**

Elizabeth doesn't think she'll ever get over the cavernous proportions of Watson's house. She's still terrified to touch anything in the kitchen.

"Don't you get lonely here, all alone?" she asks him one night.

"I'm not here very often," Watson admits, pouring her a glass of wine. "I work a lot. Karen and Andrew manage to fill the house with noise, of course."

She smiles at him and leans against the counter. "This house is so big. You could wander around all weekend and never run into anyone else."

Watson smiles and pours his own glass of wine. "I'm hoping it won't be empty forever," he says.

Elizabeth looks at him, and a shiver runs up her spine, though she's not sure if it's apprehension or hope.

"How are your kids?" Watson asks, smiling at her.

Elizabeth smiles back. "Fine. But they think I'm working late. I need to be home by eight."

"Is Charlie strict when it comes to curfew?" Watson asks, putting his arm around her and leading her into the next room.

"Very funny," Elizabeth says with a grin, sinking down into the sofa. "I feel bad for lying to them. I'm scared they'll find out and think I've been hiding things from them. I don't want to give them any reasons to distrust me."

Watson's fingers run through her hair slowly. "When are you going to tell them about me?" he asks.

Elizabeth bites her lip and gives him a guilty look. "I _want_ to tell them," she says. "I think Charlie would be okay. I'm not sure about Sam. I think he took it the hardest when Patrick left..." She trails off and frowns. "I'm not sure Kristy would cope well with it. I think she's happy with things the way they are." She gives Watson a small smile. "I think David Michael would love you."

"Really?" Watson looks pleased.

"What about your kids?" Elizabeth asks nervously. "How would they react?"

"They'd be fine," Watson says. "Lisa's introduced them to Seth already. It helps that things between Lisa and myself are still quite amicable, of course. Andrew might be a little shy at first, but Karen is very inquisitive. She'd probably drill you with questions."

Elizabeth runs her finger up and down the stem of her wine glass. "It makes me nervous when things change," she admits. "But this can't stay a secret forever, can it?"

Watson's fingers touch the back of her neck lightly. "I hope not," he says, smiling at her.

* * *

"Kristy!" Charlie hollers up the stairs. "Mom's home! With pizza!"

Elizabeth hears Kristy's bedroom door fly open. Kristy thunders down the stairs, jumping the last five and landing heavily in the front hall. Louie tears after her, skidding on the floorboards.

"Kristy Thomas, _what_ have you been doing?" Elizabeth asks, looking down at the ripped knee of Kristy's jeans.

Kristy looks down. "Oh," she says, breathing heavily. "Claudia and I were skateboarding."

"Trying to," Sam snickers, reaching for a slice of pizza.

"Where did you get a skateboard from?" Elizabeth points to the back door, but Louie cheerfully ignores her and disappears under the table, sniffing for dropped pepperoni.

David Michael crawls after him and gently hauls him out by the collar.

"The Pike triplets pooled their allowance and bought one," Kristy says, curling a string of cheese around her finger.

David Michael helps Elizabeth push Louie out the back door.

"I'll save you my crusts," David Michael promises solemnly.

Elizabeth sits at the head of the table, feeling nervous. She's been planning this moment for weeks: The moment where she finally tells her kids about Watson.

But as she watches them reaching for pizza and arguing over who has the most pepperoni or whether or not anchovies are gross, she starts to doubt herself. She looks around the cramped kitchen and the mismatched chairs at the table. She looks at the scratch marks on the floorboards from Louie's scampering in and out. She looks at the loose carpet at the edge of the living room, and the bubbled paint on her kitchen cabinets.

"Mom?" Charlie holds out a bottle of soda. "Want a drink?"

"Yes, thank you..." Elizabeth shakes herself awake again and takes the glass Charlie hands to her. She takes a deep breath and pushes Watson to the back of her mind, making a silent, heavy decision. "How was everyone's day?" she asks.

* * *

Watson looks hurt and upset. Elizabeth looks down at her hands, feeling close to tears.

"I know it sounds stupid," she whispers. "But you have _so much money_. It frightens me, sometimes." She bites her lip and keeps her eyes cast downwards. "I'm always thinking about money. I was looking around my house last night and I couldn't stop thinking about _your_ house –"

"Elizabeth," Watson interrupts, "Do you really think I'm going to care about what your house looks like?"

"I don't know," she says desperately. "We had pizza for dinner last night, and the kids were fighting over the biggest piece and the pepperoni, and the dog was trying to scratch the back door down... And all I could think about was how every time I'm with you, we're eating fancy dinners or drinking a bottle of wine that would set me back a week's pay." She backs away from him, flustered, embarrassed and guilty.

"You're making up excuses," Watson says gently, pacing after her and reaching for her hand. "I don't care about any of those things. I know it's scary, Elizabeth. I know it's hard to trust someone new after what you've been through. I know you're worried about being hurt again, and your children being hurt again, but I swear I'm not –"

"Patrick promised a lot of things," Elizabeth says tearfully, "And he still left. And he was _much_ more like me, Watson. We went to college together. Our parents raised us in the same sort of environment and we both understood each other. I _trusted_ him, and look what he did. And you and I are so different. I just don't think it'll work, Watson..."

"We're not so different," Watson says desperately, clinging to her hand. "The only real difference is the money, Elizabeth."

"It's a big difference," Elizabeth answers. Terror is welling up inside her, and a great desire to run and escape is forcing her backwards, towards the door.

Watson follows her, never letting go of her hand. "Please don't judge me by my bank account," he whispers. "I love you."

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and she thinks about how much she, Charlie, Sam, Kristy and David Michael have been through so far. She thinks about how much it would hurt to go through it again.

"I'm sorry," she sobs. "I really am." She pulls her hand free of his and hurries back to her car, tears hot and wet on her face. Watson calls after her, but she doesn't turn back.

Though the world she has built around herself is solitary, it's also safe. The thought of letting someone in, and risking the crumbling of its walls, is suddenly too much.


	8. Smile

**Title/Prompt:** Smile  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG  
**Word count:** 10023  
**Summary:** Elizabeth Thomas battles feelings of doubt and jealousy as she and Richard Spier both vow to spend less time looking back.

******Notes: **Previous parts in this series are Kitchen, Grief, Distance and Trust. This is the final instalment of the Richard-Elizabeth series. The next chapter will be a separate, unrelated one-shot.

Final part in the Richard-Elizabeth series! Thank you so much to the people who have read and commented on everything so far. The response to this has just blown me away.

Again, canon features here, but it may appear slightly (or hugely) mutated. I'm also really sorry I haven't been able to fill the numerous requests for more Claudia. I just couldn't possibly fit everything in.

Thank you, again, for your encouragement.

A standing ovation for the amazing isabelquinn (on livejournal) if you would! She's read each piece several times and has been so encouraging and helpful and supportive. Thank you!

* * *

**1985**

Elizabeth keeps her eyes directed down at the papers on her desk. She can hear blood pulsing in her ears.

_Don't look_, she thinks. _Don't look, don't look._

Through the mosaic of glass tiles in her office wall, Elizabeth is clearly visible to both her boss and the man sitting opposite him - Watson Brewer.

The last thing Elizabeth wants is to get eye contact with Watson.

Watson Brewer, however, is desperate to get eye contact with Elizabeth. He enters her office once his conversation with her boss is done, stopping only to smile and exchange a brief hello with Elizabeth's secretary.

Elizabeth watches him nervously, her mouth parched and her palms sweaty, as he closes the door. She gets to her feet, her knees trembling.

"What are you doing?" she asks desperately. "Sally's bound to go spreading rumours if you start coming to see me like this."

Watson gives her a small smile. "I've stopped by your office before, Elizabeth." He takes a few careful steps towards her.

She avoids his eyes by glancing to the windows in her office, desperate to make sure no one is watching them.

"How are you?" Watson asks politely.

"Fine," she answers. "How are you?"

"Dreadful." Watson smiles. "I've tried to call you."

"I know," Elizabeth says, glancing to her phone as a reaction. "I've been busy."

They stand opposite one another, Elizabeth's desk in between them. Her heart is pulsing painfully in her breast.

"I thought everything was going well," Watson says softly.

Elizabeth swallows and looks down at her desk to avoid his eyes. "It _was_ going well," she admits.

"So what happened?" Watson tilts his head, trying to catch her eye.

Elizabeth frantically tries to put her complicated thoughts into something coherent. "I don't know," she says desperately. "I thought about having to tell my kids about you, Watson, and then I thought about everything we've already been through..." She looks up at him, finally, fighting tears. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"We've been seeing each other for almost a year," Watson points out, keeping his voice gentle. "Have you really not thought about those things before? Don't you think they might suspect something, anyway?"

Elizabeth cringes and sinks back into her chair. "Please don't ask me to change my mind," she says eventually. "It's better this way."

"Really?" Watson asks doubtfully. "It feels worse, to me."

"_Please_ don't make it harder than it has to be," Elizabeth says. Her throat feels tight and her eyes are aching.

Watson sighs and sits opposite her, watching her sorrowfully. "Do you know what I think, Elizabeth?" he asks softly. "I think you saw our anniversary approaching and you panicked. I think you started listing ridiculous differences between us so you could justify running away. And I think you're forgetting I'm not Patrick Thomas."

Elizabeth stares back at him in surprise. He seems slightly embarrassed by his outburst, which, in Elizabeth's opinion, is still rather mild. But it makes her squirm uncomfortably in her chair, and she looks down at her desk again, focusing on the photo of her four beaming children, all surrounding Louie, who looks remarkably pleased with himself.

"I love you," Watson says. "Please don't be afraid of me."

Elizabeth can feel tears burning in her eyes, and she's suddenly furious. "Why did you have to come and have this conversation in my office?" she asks, hunting around in her drawer for tissues. "The last thing I need right now is Sally to look in here and see me crying."

"I've tried to call," Watson says patiently. "You won't return my messages. I'm sure Sally's noticed how many times I've tried to reach you. Short of actually visiting your home, I wasn't sure what else to do."

Elizabeth digs a clean, but crumpled, handkerchief out of the bottom of her desk, and clenches it tightly in her fist. "I can't risk what I've built up since Patrick left," she says, and her voice cracks. "Please don't ask me to, Watson."

He looks back at her sorrowfully, but he doesn't argue. He gets to his feet. "Call me," he says gently, "if you change your mind."

She watches him go, and when he closes the door behind him, she presses the heels of her hands to her eyes and smudges the tears brimming on her lashes.

* * *

Kristy is sitting on the steps of the front porch when Elizabeth gets home.

"Where's your key?" Elizabeth asks in surprise.

"I'm not locked out," Kristy answers. "I was throwing a tennis ball for Louie, but he lost interest."

Elizabeth sits down beside her daughter, feeling exhausted. "What did you do today?"

"Nothing much," Kristy answers, looking down at the toes of her sneakers. "Mary Anne's baby-sitting for Margo and Claire Pike today, and Claudia's off with some boy." She wrinkles her nose.

"Some boy?" Elizabeth asks, noting the look of distaste on her daughter's face.

Kristy sighs. "Yeah. She likes boys now."

"You girls are all growing up too fast," Elizabeth says tiredly, rubbing her eyes.

"_I'm_ not interested in boys," Kristy says defensively. "Mary Anne's not interested in them either. Boys are gross."

Elizabeth smiles and bumps shoulders with Kristy gently. "They get better," she says.

"No they don't," Kristy answers firmly. "I don't know why anyone would want to have a boyfriend. It seems pretty stupid, to me."

"Does it?" Elizabeth asks, watching Louie emerge from beneath the rhododendrons. He wags his tail at her and wanders up to the porch to collapse at Kristy's feet.

Kristy sighs and rests her chin on her knees. "Claudia never wants to hang out any more," she says sadly. "Everything's changing."

Elizabeth puts her arm around Kristy's shoulders and gives her a hug. "Not everything," she says.

* * *

Summer moves lazily into fall. The leaves on Bradford Court change colour and fall into the street, before they're raked into careful piles by the adults and kicked violently apart by the children.

Thanksgiving afternoon smells like ice and wet leaves.

"Ooh, you made cranberry bread," Kristy says happily, taking the plate out of Mary Anne's hands and standing aside to let the Spiers in. "Happy Thanksgiving!" she adds as an afterthought.

She leads them into the kitchen, where Elizabeth is surrounded by plates and pots and pans. The kitchen is full of warm, spice-rich aromas.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Thomas," Mary Anne says. She points to the cranberry bread Kristy is trying to find a place for. "We made cranberry bread again this year."

"Better hide it from Sam," Kristy grunts, juggling the Spiers' offering with a pile of mashed potatoes. "He ate the whole plate last year."

"Yeah," David Michael pipes up from under the table. "And Charlie ate the pumpkin pie."

Elizabeth sighs and bends down, lifting the table cloth and revealing David Michael and Louie sitting beneath the table. "What are you doing down there? What is the _dog_ doing down there?"

"It's _cold_ outside," David Michael says. "Can't he stay inside, Mom? _Please_?"

"He can go out while we're eating, thank you," Elizabeth says. "There are blankets on the back porch. He can snuggle into those. He'll be okay."

David Michael sighs and presses his face into Louie's shaggy neck. "Sorry, Louie," he says. "I'll save you some turkey."

Charlie's face appears, upside down, at the other end of the table. "Using the table as a fort, David Michael?"

"I guess," David Michael says. "But it didn't protect Louie."

Charlie laughs and pulls the nearest chair out. "Come on. We'll go and play fetch with him for a bit. We'll tire him out so he sleeps through dinner."

"Dinner will be ready in ten minutes," Elizabeth warns them.

The boys disappear outside with Louie in tow, and Kristy and Mary Anne escape to the living room, where Sam is sitting in front of the television.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Richard says softly.

Elizabeth smiles at him. "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Need any help?"

She shakes her head, so Richard leans against the fridge and watches her. "How's work?" he asks. "I see work on the Stamford Hospital has finally been completed. It looks like it all went smoothly."

Elizabeth nods, and her mind automatically goes to Watson. She finds herself thinking of him constantly. If she's honest with herself, she thinks of Watson more often than she thinks of Patrick.

"Edie?" Richard asks softly.

"Oh," she says, shaking her head. "Just daydreaming. Work's fine. Busy. Good."

"Good," Richard says.

She catches his eye and he gives her a small smile.

"What are you thankful for this year?" she asks, placing a stack of clean plates in the middle of the table.

"Mary Anne," Richard answers, as always. "My health. Good friends."

Elizabeth smiles at him. His answers never differ much.

"And you?" he asks.

"My kids," she says. "My health, and good friends. My mom and my sisters. Louie. My job."

"Quite a list," Richard says.

"I'm lucky, aren't I?" Elizabeth asks with a grin.

But even as she sits down with her family, and Richard and Mary Anne, who may as well be family, Elizabeth can't quite lift herself to a feeling of complete happiness.

She finds herself wondering if Watson is spending Thanksgiving alone.

It's been months since she's spoken to him, but she can't help but think of him. As she looks around the table, Elizabeth suddenly realises she wants him to be sitting there with her.

* * *

**1986**

"It's freezing out here," Richard complains, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"I need the fresh air." Elizabeth sniffs and huddles deeper into her jacket. "I've been cooped up inside all day."

Their breath mists out in front of them. The night is pitch black and icy. Bradford Court is silent, though if Elizabeth listens closely, she can hear the television in the lounge room, where her kids are sprawled in front of the fire.

"Where's Mary Anne?" she asks Richard.

He checks his watch. "Baby-sitting little Jamie Newton. She should be home soon."

"They're all growing up too fast," Elizabeth grumbles quietly. "I can remember how difficult it was finding a good sitter for _Mary Anne_."

Richard gives a short laugh. "Don't remind me."

Elizabeth grins. They sit there in comfortable silence for several minutes.

"New Year's resolutions?" Richard asks eventually.

Elizabeth winces. "I don't make them any more."

"Make one now."

Elizabeth glances sideways at him. "I resolve to stop inviting you over if you insist I make New Year's resolutions."

Richard laughs, and Elizabeth smiles. She likes making him laugh.

"What about you?" she asks.

"I don't make them either," he says, but he gives her a warm smile. "I'll make an exception this year, if you will."

Elizabeth sighs. "Go on, then."

"I'm going to stop looking backwards."

She smiles. "Good one. Me too."

"Really?" he asks.

A shiver runs up Elizabeth's spine, and she looks at him through narrowed eyes. "What?" she asks suspiciously, suddenly sensing an ulterior motive.

"Nothing," Richard answers, standing and starting down the porch steps. "It's just easier said than done, isn't it?" He smiles at her. "Goodnight, Edie."

"Goodnight," she replies. She watches him trudge through the snow back to his own house. She suddenly suspects he fell short of being totally direct with her.

Elizabeth lies awake in bed that night and wonders if Richard can see just how scared she is when it comes to looking to the future.

* * *

Elizabeth parks her car and sits with the engine idling, her gloved hands gripping the steering wheel. Wood smoke drifts slowly in the still, icy air, and the street glitters with snow that is slowly melting in the morning sun.

She draws a deep breath, cuts the engine, and fumbles with her seatbelt.

When she steps onto the sidewalk, she wonders if perhaps she should have called first. When she reaches the driveway, she's hit with a sick, nervous feeling in her stomach, and she wonders if this is really a good idea after all. When she passes the row of frozen rose bushes by the front door, her knees start trembling, and beneath all of her wintery layers, she starts to sweat.

When she rings the doorbell, she swallows and draws in a shaky breath.

Good and bad, happiness and fear are all weighing heavily upon her, trying to unbalance her.

When Watson answers the door, his face shows surprise and delight.

Elizabeth feels the bad and the fear melt away.

"Hi," she breathes shyly, giving him a smile. "Happy New Year."

He smiles back at her and lets the door swing wide open. "Happy New Year..."

They stand there for a long moment, looking at one another.

"Are you busy?" she asks softly.

He takes a breath and looks over his shoulder. "My kids are here," he says. He holds his hand out. "Come and meet them."

Elizabeth slips her glove off before she takes his hand and steps into the warmth of the house. "Watson," she whispers, "I'm really sorry to just show up like this, but I had to see you and tell you I'd made a mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake," Watson says softly, closing the door quietly behind her. He squeezes her hand. "I think we both needed time. Don't you?"

She bites her lip and looks further into the house. She can hear the high-pitched, never-ending, rambling chatter of a young girl somewhere in the direction of the kitchen.

"It's been so long since I even spoke to you," she whispers. "I thought maybe you'd found someone else..."

Watson leans forward and kisses her gently. "I don't care how long it's been," he says. "There's no one else, Elizabeth."

* * *

Elizabeth still waits to tell her children about Watson. She wants to be sure things between the two of them haven't really changed. She wants to be sure that their relationship will work, now that it's separated from the raw aftermath of divorces. There are no excuses to hide behind.

It doesn't take her long to know for sure she has nothing to worry about.

Watson is constantly on her mind, and for the first time in a long time, Elizabeth feels afloat with happiness.

She buys pizza again, but this time she focuses on the four young faces at the table with her, instead of the many imperfections in their small home. She ignores the bickering about anchovies, and she focuses upon the warm little glow of happiness in her stomach.

Her heart does a little dance in her chest as she clears her throat.

Her children look at her expectantly.

"We're having a guest for dinner tomorrow night," Elizabeth says.

Kristy immediately narrows her eyes. "Who?"

Elizabeth drums her fingernails on the table in a display of slight nerves. She focuses on the happy little glow again. "His name is Watson," she says. "He's very important to me, and I want him to meet you all."

Sam stops chewing his pizza. He frowns and swallows, his eyes watering slightly at the effort of it. "Are you dating him, Mom?"

"Yes," Elizabeth mutters, feeling a flutter of embarrassment.

Charlie wolf-whistles softly, and David Michael giggles.

Kristy eyes her mother suspiciously. "Who is this guy?" she asks. "How long have you known him? Does he know about all of us?"

Elizabeth sighs and wipes her fingers on her napkin. "I've known him long enough, Kristy. I want you all to know I'd never do anything to disrupt what we have." She gazes at all of her children seriously. "I don't want any of us to get hurt again."

"We know, Mom," Charlie says softly. "He must be all right, if you like him." He gives her a small smile, and she returns it gratefully.

* * *

Elizabeth can't stop fidgeting.

She's not worried about Charlie at all. Sam doesn't look particularly thrilled about things, but he's making an effort, and he exchanged a look and a helpless smile with Charlie when Watson made a pathetic joke about the potatoes. David Michael is shy, but he peers up at Watson now and then, quietly hopeful for attention.

Kristy, however, seems determined not to like him, and she's taking the cordial behaviour of her brothers as a personal insult.

Elizabeth gives her a warning glare as Kristy snippily replies to Watson's comments on the baseball.

"I thought you liked baseball, Kristy," Elizabeth says, and she knows Kristy understands the underlying threat in her tone. _Behave yourself_.

Kristy shrugs and turns back to her dinner. Elizabeth is watchful enough to know Charlie has just kicked his younger sister under the table.

Kristy glares at him, and he raises his eyebrows slightly.

Elizabeth looks towards Watson apologetically, and he smiles. She relaxes somewhat. She can see what he's thinking.

_This is going to take time, and that's okay_.

* * *

"It's a heap of junk!" Sam says, laughing hysterically.

Charlie grins and shrugs. "I don't care. It's mine."

Elizabeth pats the rusted bonnet of Charlie's new car. "It's a little... worn," she says, searching for a better word.

Sam roars with laughter again. "You should ride in it, Mom. It feels like you're being driven in a tractor."

"If you want something better than this, better start saving your pennies now," Charlie says, grinning at Sam.

Sam's face falls as he realises Charlie's right.

Elizabeth grins and puts an arm around her eldest son. "Care to chauffeur me across town?" she asks.

"Sure," Charlie says happily. He wrenches the passenger door open and waves Elizabeth in, just as Kristy and David Michael appear.

"What is _that_?" Kristy asks with disdain.

"It's my car," Charlie says.

David Michael is sticky with strawberry ice-cream. "It looks old," he says. "Does it work?"

"Of course it works," Charlie answers. "I drove it here, didn't I?"

"Barely," Sam snickers.

"If any of you want Charlie to drive you around, you'd better be nice about this car," Elizabeth calls from the passenger seat.

"I like it," David Michael says, though Elizabeth doesn't think he needs any prompting to be positive. "I like the orange."

"That's rust, dude," Sam says.

"Got a name for it, Charlie?" Kristy asks, kicking the front fender.

"Watch it," Sam says. "Don't kick it apart, Kristy."

"I'm sure something will come up," Charlie says airily.

"It's a pile of junk," Sam says.

"Rust bucket," Kristy agrees.

Charlie shifts the car into reverse and grins at his mother. "I'll take you to Watson's," he says. "I want to show this Junk Bucket off to his swanky neighbours."

Elizabeth laughs, and Charlie steers the car out into Bradford Court.

* * *

"Mom!" Kristy bursts into the kitchen, red-faced and excited. "Check it out." She thrusts a flier under Elizabeth's nose.

Elizabeth goes cross-eyed trying to read it, until she takes the flier from Kristy's hand and holds it at a readable distance. "The Baby-sitters Club?" she asks. "What's The Baby-sitters Club?"

"It's my idea," Kristy breathes, flopping into a chair at the end of the table. "Mary Anne, Claudia, Stacey and I – Stacey's another girl from school – we're going to hold meetings three times a week, and parents can call us and set up baby-sitting appointments! Remember how you couldn't get a sitter for David Michael the other night? Well, that won't happen again, because..."

Elizabeth tunes out as Kristy rambles on and on about the club. She smiles in all the right places, and when Kristy pauses for breath, she cuts in.

"Have you got time for this?" she asks. "I don't want this interfering with your school-work."

"It won't," Kristy promises.

"Does this mean you'll sit for Karen and Andrew sometimes?" Elizabeth asks casually.

Kristy's face immediately turns into a sour frown. "No!" she says angrily. "I told you, I don't like them."

"You haven't _met_ them yet," Elizabeth says patiently.

"I don't want to," Kristy mumbles.

Her good mood appears crashed, and Elizabeth feels guilty. She leans over and kisses the top of Kristy's head.

"This sounds like an excellent idea," she says, holding the flier up. "You'll make a business woman yet, Kristin Amanda Thomas."

Kristy beams, her irritation forgotten. "Could you make us some copies? Please? We want to drop them around the neighbourhood."

Elizabeth eyes the flier. "Whose phone number is that?"

"Claudia's," Kristy says. "She has her own line. Could I have my own–?"

"No, you couldn't," Elizabeth interrupts with a smile. "But I'll make the copies for you."

* * *

Elizabeth stands amongst the rhododendrons by the fence and waves to Richard as he pulls into the driveway.

"Hello," he says in surprise. "Are you waiting for me?"

"Yes," Elizabeth says in a low voice. "Come here."

Richard eyes her suspiciously. "Why?"

She sighs impatiently. "Just come here, Richard."

He walks over to her and looks down at her over the fence.

"Mary Anne's inside, waiting very anxiously to have a discussion with you," Elizabeth says knowingly.

Richard pales. "What about?" he asks, looking flustered.

"A baby-sitting club, or something," Elizabeth says. "Listen, it's very important to the girls, and I know you're Mary Anne's father and this really has nothing to do with me, but I want you to know I think she's extremely responsible and that I think this is a _great_ idea."

"What's a great idea?" Richard asks suspiciously.

"Go and talk to her," Elizabeth says, widening her eyes innocently. "And the two of us? We never spoke. But please, Richard, consider what this would mean to Mary Anne."

"Elizabeth," Richard says sharply. "What are you talking about?"

She smiles at him. "Go inside," she says. "Your very responsible twelve-year-old daughter wants a word."

Richard looks annoyed and worried. He sighs and loosens his tie slightly before he turns towards the house.

Elizabeth quietly crosses her fingers for both Kristy and Mary Anne.

When she sees the rapid peppering of flashlight-fire between their windows later that night, she smiles.

* * *

It turns out Elizabeth is the first client to call Kristy's new club, but her motives aren't entirely innocent. She requests a sitter for Karen and Andrew Brewer, figuring that even if Kristy refuses to sit for them, one of her friends will. She's sure that eventually, they'll convince Kristy that Karen and Andrew – and therefore Watson – aren't that bad after all.

"That's rather deceptive," Watson says, but he sounds admiring.

Elizabeth smiles at him. "I want her to like you. And Kristy loves kids, and I think she'd love _your_ kids. She'll come around, Watson. She's just scared."

"I know," Watson answers, smiling back at her. "You were scared at first, too."

* * *

Elizabeth bites her lip and eases her shoes off, rubbing her feet. "I've been walking _everywhere_ today," she complains. "Nobody told me I'd have to go on that stupid tour of the new building site." She winces and rubs her toes, glaring down at her shoes.

Watson sits on the couch beside her. "Bad day, then?"

"It's getting better," Elizabeth says, smiling at him. "Though I can't stay long. I told David Michael I'd be home to help him with his homework tonight."

Watson kisses her and she curls into him, facing the television with a contented sigh.

"How was your day?" she asks.

"Fine," he answers. "I didn't do much, today. I was in the garden for most of the afternoon."

"Thinking about what?" Elizabeth asks sleepily. She closes her eyes, her cheek comfortably padded against Watson's shoulder.

"Dandelions, for a long time," Watson says. "They're coming up everywhere. Then I thought about you."

"Still second to dandelions, am I?" Elizabeth asks with a smile.

Watson kisses the top of her head. "Not at all," he answers quietly. "I was thinking about asking you to marry me."

Elizabeth's eyes fly open, and she sits up. "Don't joke about that," she says immediately.

Watson looks back at her in surprise. "I'm not joking," he says. "I know you never think my jokes are funny, Elizabeth, but they're in better taste than this." He grins at her, but she's too astounded to smile back.

He clears his throat and assumes an expression of seriousness again. "Anyway," he says. "There's no ring, and no bended knee, but I'm asking..."

She blinks, and she can hear her heart pounding her chest. "I have to think about it," she whispers. "I'm sorry."

He kisses her gently and squeezes her hand, and eventually she sinks against him again and puts her head back on his shoulder.

"I do love you, you know," she says after a while.

"I know," he answers. "I love you too."

* * *

When Elizabeth gets home, David Michael is stretched out on the floor beside Charlie, reciting his multiplication tables.

Sam is sitting on the couch behind them with a dreamy expression on his face.

"What's wrong with Sam?" Elizabeth asks, clicking her fingers in front of her son's face with a smile. He blinks and grins at her.

"He met Stacey," David Michael says. "He loves her."

"I do not!" Sam shoots back at him.

Charlie grins and points to David Michael's math book. "Eight times nine, David Michael..."

David Michael frowns down at the pages in front of him.

Elizabeth sinks onto the couch. "Where's Kristy?"

"Homework," Sam replies. "Upstairs."

Elizabeth smiles at Sam. "Stacey's pretty, then?"

Sam gives her a dazed grin. "I guess."

"Did you go to Watson's?" David Michael asks.

"For a little while," Elizabeth admits. "He said to say hello."

David Michael smiles and turns back to his math book.

After a moment, Kristy appears, flopping into the vacant arm chair.

"How was baby-sitting?" Elizabeth asks.

Kristy glowers. "Pet-sitting, more like," she grumbles. "Some people really ought to learn how to read. Our flier doesn't say anything about pet-sitting."

"You pet-sit for Louie," David Michael says cheerfully.

Charlie points to David Michel's math homework again, and he sighs and leans over it, searching for something which will clue him in to the answer for eight times nine.

"Louie's different," Kristy says distractedly, taking the remote from Sam, who is still daydreaming. She starts flipping through the channels.

Elizabeth finds herself fidgeting. Suddenly she feels like she's keeping a huge secret from her children, and she doesn't want to. She doesn't feel guilty about it – she just wants to be honest.

"You kids like Watson, don't you?" she asks after a while.

"I do," David Michael replies enthusiastically.

"Sure," Charlie says.

Sam pulls himself out of his trance. "He's okay," he says. "You can tell he likes you, Mom. He looks at you all soppy."

"Speaking of soppy," Charlie says, looking over his shoulder at his younger brother, "what was that line you gave Stacey as she was leaving?"

Sam's mouth drops open. "I didn't say anything!"

"Kristy?" Elizabeth interrupts.

Kristy glances at her mother, looking rather upset. "He's okay," she mumbles after a moment. She fixes her eyes back on the television again.

Elizabeth looks around the room helplessly. "He wants to marry me," she says. "I haven't said yes, yet, but I haven't said no, either."

Kristy's mouth drops open. "No way!" she says vehemently. "Look what happened _last_ time you got married!"

"Kristy!" Charlie says. He turns to Elizabeth. He looks a little pale, and suddenly Elizabeth seriously doubts her decision to tell them anything.

"That's great, Mom," Charlie says, giving her a small smile. "Watson makes you happy. Congratulations."

"Yeah," Sam says, moving a little closer to Elizabeth. "I guess that's okay with me. I mean, if you said yes. I guess..."

David Michael eyes her critically. "When would you get married?"

"Well, I haven't quite decided I will, yet," Elizabeth says, aware that her voice sounds rather small. She gives David Michael a smile. "Not for a while. I promise."

David Michael seems happy with this. He turns back to Charlie. "Eighty two," he says.

Charlie shakes his head. "Try again."

Kristy slips out of her armchair and disappears upstairs.

Elizabeth watches her go, and her heart sinks.

* * *

**1987**

"I don't know what's wrong with Mary Anne, these past couple of days," Richard says, sounding frustrated and worried. "She's not very talkative."

"She and Kristy have had an argument," Elizabeth murmurs, reading the newspaper at Richard's kitchen table. "I can tell, because Kristy's keeping her blinds closed."

"Oh," Richard says in surprise.

"I think maybe Claudia and Stacey are arguing as well," Elizabeth muses, turning a page. "None of them appear to be talking."

"How do you _know_ this?" Richard asks, sitting opposite her and sliding a mug of coffee towards her.

"It's obvious," Elizabeth says, rolling her eyes. "Four twelve-year-old girls trying to run a baby-sitting business? I'm surprised it took them this long to have a falling out."

"Stacey's thirteen," Richard says distractedly. "So there are only three twelve-year-old girls."

"That's a minor point," Elizabeth says, grinning at him. "Though I'm impressed at the useless information you've absorbed since this club started."

Richard sighs and lifts his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "If I hear about Claudia and Stacey's late curfew again..."

Elizabeth laughs and takes a sip of her coffee. "It wouldn't hurt," she says, "to ease up on Mary Anne a little." She smiles at Richard and turns back to the newspaper.

* * *

Elizabeth has never been much of a gardener, but since dating Watson, she's suddenly found herself much more interested in perennials and flowering shrubs.

She pulls weeds, enjoying the way the sun feels on her back, enjoying the satisfaction of physical work. Nearby, Charlie and Sam are tinkering under the Junk Bucket's hood. Sam is snickering at the state of the fanbelt.

Elizabeth looks up as the sound of female laughter floats over the fence. She can see Richard standing on his front porch. Raising herself a little higher, she can see the top of a blonde head. Richard laughs and smiles, and the blonde head moves away.

Elizabeth stands up, trying not to be obvious about snooping.

Richard, however, does not look towards his neighbour. He is still smiling after the blonde woman who is heading towards her car.

The look on his face is scarily-reminiscent of the dazed look Sam gets when Stacey comes by.

Elizabeth bites her lip and turns her attention back to pulling weeds from the garden bed. An uncomfortable prickle of jealousy moves down her spine, and she frowns and tries to shake it off, not entirely sure why she felt it in the first place.

* * *

Elizabeth goes to Richard's house the next Saturday, intent on asking who his blonde visitor is. Elizabeth has seen her twice now, and the silly jealousy has rippled down her back each time. She decides to mask her visit under concern for the continuing argument between Kristy and Mary Anne, which is yet to resolve itself.

Elizabeth has every confidence the girls will work it out, but it's a nice cover story for a seemingly-important visit to Richard.

Elizabeth, however, is too late. Richard is pouring coffee for the blonde woman, who is sitting at the kitchen table in Elizabeth's usual chair, a dreamy expression on her face.

Elizabeth hovers in the kitchen doorway. Suddenly she feels like an intruder in Richard's kitchen, and a tumultuous wave of jealousy and resentment roils around in her stomach.

"This is Sharon," Richard says, motioning towards the stranger. "She and I went to high school together."

"A _long_ time ago," Sharon jokes, smiling at Elizabeth.

"This is my neighbour, Elizabeth," Richard says, smiling back at Sharon.

Elizabeth reaches over rather cautiously and shakes hands with Sharon.

"Coffee?" Richard asks.

Elizabeth desperately wants to say yes, but suddenly the thought of sitting in Richard's kitchen is, for the first time ever, unappealing. "No, thank you," she says. "I wanted to talk about this argument between the girls, but I'm sure it'll work out."

"Mary Anne seems much happier, lately," Richard answers. "I thought the fight was over."

"Oh, maybe it is," Elizabeth answers.

"You have a daughter Mary Anne's age?" Sharon asks.

Elizabeth smiles, though she's unaccountably irritated by the woman sitting in the chair she usually sits in. "Kristy," she says, nodding.

"My daughter's upstairs with Mary Anne now," Sharon says happily. "I'm so glad there are other girls around here she can be friends with."

"Sharon and her children have just moved back to Stoneybrook from California," Richard explains, setting a mug of coffee down in front of Sharon. Elizabeth is relieved to see he hasn't given her the green mug _she_ usually drinks from.

"We're in the old farmhouse out on Burnt Hill Road," Sharon says. She gives Richard a starry-eyed smile.

Elizabeth draws a breath and backs away. "I have to go," she says. "I'm glad the girls have sorted things out."

"Me too," Richard answers.

"Bye," Elizabeth calls, already in the front hall. She closes the door before Richard can answer.

* * *

"What's wrong?" Watson asks.

Elizabeth looks up, somewhat distractedly. "Nothing," she answers. She turns back to her lunch, but she doesn't feel hungry.

"Are you sure?" Watson presses. "It _seems_ like something's wrong..."

Elizabeth sighs, and he smiles at her.

"It's _Richard_," Elizabeth says, irrational annoyance and frustration welling up inside her once again. "I've barely seen him at all lately, and it's all because of Sharon."

"Maybe it's a good idea for him to extend his social circle a little," Watson says.

Elizabeth shoots him a look, fairly certain she's said those exact words at some point or another. "Well, Sharon is wrong for Richard's social circle," she says. "They're too different."

"You're not exactly similar to Richard Spier, you know," Watson says.

"That's not the point!" Elizabeth says, jabbing her fork into her stir-fried beef. "She doesn't know what he's been through."

"I'm sure he'll tell her, if he wants to," Watson says gently. "Elizabeth, I'm sure you're still very important to him."

Elizabeth drops her fork and slumps back in her seat. She can feel the tips of her ears turning red. "That's not what I'm worried about," she mutters.

Deep down, however, Elizabeth knows that Watson has unveiled what's really concerning her: That suddenly, Richard doesn't need her any more.

* * *

The second time Watson asks Elizabeth to marry him, he has an engagement ring. The diamond glitters prettily against a velvet box, and Elizabeth's heart pounds painfully when she looks at it.

But it's not the ring that convinces her. It's the shy, earnest, hopeful look in Watson's eyes.

"Yes," she says.

* * *

Elizabeth and Watson are both nervous. She toys with her fork, and he keeps tugging at the ends of his sleeves, as though they're determined to crawl away up his arms. Charlie keeps glancing to them both in amusement, as though he knows exactly what's going on.

Sam and David Michael are oblivious; much more interested in the cartons of Chinese take-out. Kristy glowers down at her plate, boycotting the take-out and choosing instead to eat a sandwich.

Finally, desperate to relieve herself of the tension, worry and fear, Elizabeth clears her throat and gets shakily to her feet. Watson stands beside her immediately, and Elizabeth can tell that _all_ of her children know what's about to happen, despite the fact she's not wearing the diamond Watson gave her.

"Watson and I are engaged," Elizabeth says, and despite her nervousness, she feels alive with warmth as she says the words aloud. "I've agreed to marry him."

Charlie and Sam both stand to congratulate them, but Kristy throws her chair back immediately. It clatters to the floor and she flees upstairs. David Michael looks after her in surprise.

"Congratulations," Charlie says after a moment. Kristy's bedroom door slams above them.

"Yeah, congratulations," Sam says. He grins. "We were wondering when you'd cave, Mom."

* * *

"She'll come around," Watson comforts Elizabeth quietly. "It's a big change for everyone. We don't have to rush into anything."

"I know," Elizabeth answers. She drains the sink and leans against the counter.

"Really," Watson promises. "Things will be okay."

Elizabeth smiles at him and kisses his cheek, thinking about how wonderfully patient and understanding he is.

"I'll go," Watson says, taking her hand. "You should talk to her. You should have time with all of them to answer their questions. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Okay." Elizabeth follows him to the front door. Watson calls goodnight to the boys, and David Michael hurries into the front hall in his pyjamas to say goodbye.

"You'll be back, right?" he asks seriously.

"I'll be back," Watson promises.

David Michael beams at him.

"Bed, mister," Elizabeth says, smiling at her youngest son. "I'll be up in a minute."

Watson kisses her goodnight again, and Elizabeth closes the door quietly behind him.

"Come on," she says to David Michael. She leads him upstairs and makes sure he starts the process of going to bed, before she turns to Kristy's closed door and knocks gently.

"Go away," Kristy says miserably.

"Two minutes?" Elizabeth requests. When she doesn't get an answer, she eases the door open.

Kristy is face-down on her bed.

Elizabeth sits beside her and pats her back gently. "I know it's hard, sweetie," she says, feeling guilty. "But it'll be okay."

"Why does everything have to change?" Kristy asks, her voice muffled.

"This is a good change," Elizabeth says.

"It's not just you and Watson," Kristy sniffs. "It's Mary Anne, too."

Elizabeth tugs gently on Kristy's ponytail, so she rolls over. "What about Mary Anne?"

"She has a new best friend," Kristy says bitterly. "Dawn Schafer. They hang out together all the time, and they're always giggling and whispering because Dawn's mom and Mr. Spier went to high school together."

Kristy wipes her eyes, looking furious with herself for crying.

Elizabeth's heart is beating quickly.

"I hate Dawn," Kristy mutters. "She's stealing Mary Anne away from me. And Watson is stealing you away from us, and everything is going to go wrong..."

"Watson isn't stealing me away," Elizabeth promises gently. "You, Charlie, Sam and David Michael will always, _always_ come first. But I love Watson, Kristy, and he makes me happy. I think we could all be happy together. He's not trying to split any of us up." She strokes Kristy's hair gently. "And Mary Anne will always be your best friend," she says confidently. "You've been through too much together to have someone else come in and ruin it. But you should remember that you're not the only person who can make Mary Anne happy."

Kristy wipes her eyes on her sleeve and looks up at Elizabeth. "I don't know," she says doubtfully.

"Trust me," Elizabeth says with a wry smile. "There are three or four people you're going to meet in your lifetime, Kristy, and you'll have a special connection with them you won't find anywhere else. Mary Anne is one of those people."

She leans over and kisses Kristy's forehead. "It'll be okay," she promises.

Kristy sits up. "I'm sorry I fought with you and Watson," she says miserably.

"I know." Elizabeth sits up on Kristy's bed, against the pillows, and she looks through the window towards the Spiers' house, which is dark. She thinks about what she just said to Kristy, who is jealous of Dawn Schafer moving in on her friendship with Mary Anne Spier.

She smiles to herself and repeats her own advice in her head – switching some of the names.

"Sometimes I say things without thinking first," Kristy admits after a while.

Elizabeth rests her cheek against the top of Kristy's head. "I do that, too," she says. "We're a lot alike."

"So why do you need Watson?" Kristy asks desperately. "Why do you need anyone? We've been this long without Dad and we've done okay."

Elizabeth thinks back to all the support she's had from Richard and Watson over the years. She thinks back to the loneliness and the long nights. She remembers how terrifying it was, being solely responsible for her children and trying to shelter them from any further hurt.

"We've done okay," Elizabeth agrees quietly. "But I think we'll be able to do better, with Watson. He makes me happy."

Kristy sighs, and her breath is hot against Elizabeth's shoulder. "I guess I can deal with it, then," she says after a moment. "I guess I can get used to the idea if it means you'll be happy."

Elizabeth grins and puts her arms around her daughter. "Thank you," she says graciously, because she knows that Kristy has inherited her father's stubbornness, too.

But there is a big difference, as Kristy is better at defeating her shortcomings than Patrick ever was.

* * *

As summer wanes on and the date to her wedding draws closer and closer, Elizabeth realises that one of the things she is most terrified about is leaving Bradford Court.

She sits on the front porch at night and listens to the cicadas and the sprinkler systems and she feels utterly, overwhelmingly at home.

One night, as she sits on the front porch and looks around at everything she'll miss, Richard crosses the lawn and sits beside her.

"Hi," Elizabeth says in surprise.

"Hello."

They sit in silence for a while, but Elizabeth can't feel comfortable. She fidgets and looks sideways at him. "How's Sharon?" she asks.

Richard smiles. "She's fine," he answers softly. "How's Watson?"

"Fine."

Richard nods, and watches the Pikes' cat slink along the Kishis' fence and disappear under the hedge. "You know," he says quietly, "I didn't like Watson much at first."

"You didn't?" Elizabeth asks. "Why not?" She sits stiffly, defensive and worried.

"I wasn't sure he was right for you," Richard admits. "I was worried about what would happen if things went wrong. I didn't want you to lose what you had built up after Patrick left."

"I can look after myself," Elizabeth says, but she feels grateful all the same.

"I know you can," Richard says. "You can look after yourself and everyone else at the same time, but I couldn't help but feel a little suspicious, all the same. When the two of you parted and decided to go separate ways, I was a little relieved."

"You were?" Elizabeth asks.

"Only for a moment." Richard gives her a sheepish smile. "But you were rather miserable without him. In the end, I was glad when I saw you were together again."

"I'm suspicious of Sharon," Elizabeth whispers guiltily.

"I know," Richard answers with a smile.

"I'm not hiding it very well, am I?"

"Oh, I only know you're suspicious because of what I went through when you met Watson," Richard admits. "I felt like I was losing someone very special to me."

Elizabeth clears her throat, which is aching, and then nudges him. "Don't be stupid," she says.

Richard chuckles and gives a soft sigh. They sit there in silence for a while, listening to the night time sounds of Bradford Court.

"I hope my next neighbours are a little quieter," Richard says after a moment.

Elizabeth shoves him, and he laughs.

* * *

"I'm going to have to talk to Patrick," Elizabeth says to Watson one evening.

He looks up at her in surprise. "Why?"

Elizabeth bites her lip and looks down at the paperwork scattered across the table. "Because my house isn't _my_ house. It's _our_ house. I need him to sign his half over to me before I can sell it."

"Oh." Watson looks annoyed, and Elizabeth can feel a matching expression on her own face.

"I bet this is why he did it," she says, glaring down at the faded ink of Patrick's signature. "I bet he did it so he could keep tabs on me. I bet he's been sitting in California for the past seven years _laughing_ about the fact I'm still living in a house with a leaky basement and broken guttering."

"I think that might be a stretch," Watson says. "But he's certainly left you in a bit of a mess."

"A bit of a mess," Elizabeth glowers. "That's an understatement."

"Do you want to get it over with?" Watson asks. "You can use my study."

Elizabeth kisses his cheek and shuts herself away in Watson's study, which is the size of the kitchen in her house on Bradford Court.

She calls 4-1-1 and manages to find Patrick with relatively little trouble. He answers the phone cheerfully, and to her dismay, there is still an ache of longing in her chest.

"It's Liz," she says softly. "Hi."

"Liz!" He sounds pleased to hear from her, which somehow makes things worse. "How are you?"

"Fine," she answers. "How are you?"

"Can't complain," Patrick answers airily.

Elizabeth waits for him to ask after the kids, but the silence between them becomes deafening.

"How's your wife?" she asks.

"Oh." Patrick gives a nervous laugh. "No, I'm divorced. Again. But I'm seeing someone else, now."

"Congratulations," Elizabeth answers dryly.

Patrick clears his throat. "Anyway," he says. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to sell the house," Elizabeth says, and she feels a new pang at the thought of it. She remembers how happy she and Patrick first were when they moved into that house, and the thought of saying goodbye to it is suddenly very difficult.

"Why?" Patrick asks suspiciously.

"Why does it matter?" Elizabeth asks, not bothering to hide her irritation. "I need to sell it, and so I need a signature from you. You'll still get half the money from the sale, if that's what's worrying you."

Patrick sighs. "I don't know, Liz."

"You don't know?" she asks incredulously. "You've _got_ to be joking. I swear to God, Patrick, if you make this any harder than it needs to be, I'll drag you backwards through the legal system until your hair stands on end."

"Oh?" Patrick laughs, and anger flares up in Elizabeth's chest.

"Oh? Yes, oh!" she snaps. "I'm pretty sure I can find a lawyer or two to help me out..."

Patrick suddenly clears his throat again. "Look," he says, "let me fly out there and take a look at the house."

"Don't you dare," Elizabeth says. "If you want to keep the house, you buy my half of it, but you stay the hell away from here. I don't care if you've planned this all along; if you've kept your name attached to here in case you decided you wanted to come back one day. As far as I'm concerned, that door is closed. Got it?"

Patrick is silent for a long time. "Fine," he mutters eventually. "Fine. I'll sign whatever papers you send me."

"Thank you," Elizabeth says, loathing the fact she's thanking him for anything. "And the kids are all _great_, by the way." She slams the phone down and slumps back against the padded leather of Watson's chair.

Her heart is racing, and she feels miserable, until she looks at the photo of Watson, Karen and Andrew on the desk. Suddenly she remembers why she's selling the house at all. She smiles and closes her eyes, relief and happiness finally seeping in to replace the anger and fear.

* * *

Elizabeth sits at the table and pretends not to listen as Kristy begs Charlie for help.

"We'd pay you!" Kristy says desperately. "A dollar each way. Two dollars per meeting! You'd just have to drop me at Claudia's and then pick me up half an hour later. Or you could stay and hang out with Janine or something..."

Charlie clears his throat. "How many members in your club?" he asks, polishing an apple on his shirt.

"Five," Kristy says proudly. "Me, Mary Anne, Claudia, Stacey and Dawn."

"Uh-huh," Charlie says. "How much money do you put into your dues every week?"

"A dollar each," Kristy says, and her voice has the tiniest falter in it.

Elizabeth grins down at her newspaper, but doesn't say anything.

"So you're willing to pay me two dollars per meeting, three times a week, to drive you back and forth between Watson's and Claudia's?" Charlie asks. "That's six dollars a week. But your budget is only five dollars a week..."

Kristy bounces on her toes. "_Please_?" she squeaks.

Charlie sighs. "I'll do it for fifty cents a trip, okay?" he asks. "To cover gas, and my pain and suffering from having to regularly spend time with _you_ on the drive over."

"Shut up," Kristy says, shoving him. Then she squeals and bounces again. "_Thank_ you, Charlie!"

"Don't mention it," Charlie says, inspecting his apple. "Go and do your math homework. I mean, seriously, Kristy –"

Kristy whirls away, immediately heading for Mary Anne's.

Elizabeth looks up at Charlie and smiles. "Thank you, Charlie."

He grins and shrugs. "She's worried about moving," he says. "If this will rid us all of at least one complaint on that list of hers, it'll be worth it."

Elizabeth smiles, and Charlie squeezes her shoulder on the way through to the living room.

* * *

Elizabeth shuts herself away in Watson's study, listening to the sounds of feet tramping through the house. Crates of wine and glasses are carried back and forth, and in the back yard, the white folds of the marquee are beginning to take shape.

She watches through the window, and butterflies clatter around in her stomach.

Watson finds her half an hour later, and she's tear-streaked and sniffling.

"Cold feet?" Watson asks with a smile.

"No," Elizabeth says, wiping her eyes.

Watson sits against his desk and takes her hand. "What's wrong, Elizabeth?"

"I'm just nervous," she says. She pauses for a moment, but the words leap out anyway, almost against her will. "I wasn't this nervous when I married Patrick."

"The folly of youth," Watson answers with a smile, and Elizabeth is relieved to see she hasn't insulted him.

"I was pregnant with Charlie," she says, wiping her eyes again. "I was so excited about becoming a mother I didn't really think about what could go wrong."

"You're not supposed to think about what could go wrong," Watson says gently. "Not on your wedding day."

"I think I am," Elizabeth says. "I have four kids to think of. I have to think about how they'll be affected if things go wrong."

"You'll have six children to think of, come Saturday," Watson says, smiling. He runs his thumb across her knuckles. "I know it's scary, Elizabeth," he says gently. "But I'll look after you. And I want you to look after me, too. And Karen and Andrew."

Elizabeth gives a small laugh and wipes her eyes again. "I will."

Watson kisses her hand. "Do you want to marry me?" he asks.

"Yes," Elizabeth answers. She leans her head against his arm. "Yes, I do."

"Then you'd better come and fix the seating arrangement," Watson says. "I can't figure it out at all."

Elizabeth kisses his cheek. "I love you," she says. "I'm nervous, but I can't wait to marry you, Watson Brewer."

Watson looks ridiculously pleased by this. He kisses her hand again. "I can't wait, either," he says.

* * *

"Charlie!" David Michael looks up at his brother helplessly. "I've forgotten, again."

Charlie kneels and pulls David Michael's rumpled tie out of his collar. "Let me do it for you this time, and we'll work on it again later, okay?"

"Okay," David Michael agrees, giving up on the idea of knotting the tie himself. "I tried, though."

"I know you did," Charlie says, frowning down at the lump David Michael has squeezed into the tie already.

Elizabeth watches them, butterflies knocking around in her stomach. The curtains are drawn and the room is dim, but she can hear the crowd of guests murmuring and moving about in the garden beyond the windows.

"Where's Sam?" she asks after a moment.

"He went to find Watson." Kristy nervously smooths out an imaginary wrinkle in her dress. "Where's Karen?"

"Busy terrifying Andrew with stories about the creepy neighbour," Charlie mutters, putting the tie over David Michael's head and gently fixing it beneath his collar.

"Go and find Sam, Kristy?" Elizabeth requests. Her mouth is dry. "I want to talk to you all."

Kristy disappears, looking relieved at having something to do.

"Is this the part where we run off?" Charlie jokes. "I'm not sure the Junk Bucket is the best vehicle for a getaway, Mom."

She grins at him. "Shut up," she says, and Charlie laughs.

Kristy returns with Sam, and he closes the door.

"Are we escaping, then?" he asks with a grin. "Better go and start the Junk Bucket," he tells Charlie.

"Oh, enough!" Elizabeth cries, but she's smiling. The butterflies in her stomach have calmed slightly. She ushers her children around her and looks at them, suddenly strangely wistful for the days she could protect them all with nothing more than a flash-light and a soothing voice in the middle of the night. Fears were so imaginary then.

"You're not going to cry, are you?" Sam asks, looking nervous.

"No," Elizabeth says, but she sniffs and blinks back tears.

"It'll be okay, Mom," Kristy says. "We'll look after you if things go wrong."

"Not that they will," Charlie says hurriedly.

"No," Kristy agrees.

Elizabeth smiles and draws a deep breath, urging her tears back. "Watson will look after us," she says. "But just in case – _just in case_ – I want to remind you all that we're pretty good at looking after ourselves, now. Aren't we?"

"Sure," Charlie and Sam echo.

"Yup," David Michael says brightly. "And I'll look after Louie as well."

Elizabeth grins at him. "You can look after Louie," she agrees. "But I don't want any of you to worry. Watson thinks the world of all of you..." She feels herself getting teary. "Things are going to be okay," she says, and she looks around at the four of them and they seem so grown up and concerned for her she can't help but cry.

"Jeez, Mom," Sam mutters. "You're not supposed to have mascara streaks down your face when you walk down the aisle."

She laughs helplessly and wipes at the tears on her cheeks. "We'll be okay," she says again. "We've been through so much already. I'm sure there's nothing we can't handle."

"Witches," David Michael says doubtfully, and he glances in the direction of Mrs. Porter's house.

"Karen is going to take some handling," Charlie mutters, and he puts his arm around his mother and gives her a gentle squeeze. "We're okay, Mom," he says. "Stop worrying so much."

"It's just a habit," Elizabeth sighs, wiping her eyes.

"Out!" Kristy orders her brothers. "I need to help Mom fix her make-up."

The boys obediently retreat. Sam looks relieved, though he gives his mother a sheepish grin before he closes the door behind him.

Kristy turns to her mother helplessly. "I don't know how to fix your make-up," she says. "Should I get Nannie?"

Elizabeth laughs and dabs at her eyes. "No, I can do it. It's all right." She puts an arm around Kristy and kisses the top of her head. "I know this has been hard, Kristy. It took me a long time to trust Watson, too."

Kristy looks slightly guilty. "I just thought we were doing okay on our own," she mumbles.

"We were," Elizabeth says, and she lifts Kristy's chin gently. "You know, we'll still have time to ourselves," she says. "Not everything will change."

Kristy smiles. "I know," she says.

Elizabeth kisses the top of her head again and turns towards the mirror to fix her mascara.

"You know what, Mom?" Kristy asks after a moment, watching her mother in the mirror.

"What?" Elizabeth asks.

"I think if Dad saw us all here today, he'd realise leaving us was the biggest mistake ever." Kristy lifts her chin and her eyes spark. "I mean, look at us..." She smiles proudly, and Elizabeth smiles back at her.

"Yeah," she says with a grin. "Look at us."

* * *

Elizabeth walks down the aisle towards Watson with no fear at all. She smiles at him, and he takes her hand and whispers something she can't quite hear over the fading bridal music. She smiles anyway, because whatever he said sounded sweet and soft.

When Watson puts the ring on Elizabeth's finger, Elizabeth can see Mary Anne out of the corner of her eye, tear-streaked and misty-eyed.

When Watson and Elizabeth kiss, and their friends and family cheer and clap, Elizabeth turns and finds Richard smiling at her. She grins back at him and Watson takes her hand again and leads her back down the aisle, the rings glimmering on their fingers.

* * *

Elizabeth stands in shadow at the edge of the dance floor, her feet aching and her face sore from smiling all day. She stands alone and watches Watson spin past with her mother, both of them going far too fast for the music, red-faced and laughing. She watches Sam shuffling awkwardly with Stacey McGill, who looks dreamy and breathless.

She watches Mary Anne and Kristy playing Red Light, Green Light further out on the lawn with Elizabeth's nieces and nephews. She watches Charlie sit beside David Michael at a table scattered with confetti and empty glasses, and smiles when David Michael droops tiredly against his older brother, even as he protests how exhausted he is.

"Are you lurking in the shadows for a reason?"

Elizabeth looks up as Richard stands beside her. He smiles down at her, and she smiles back at him.

"I'm not lurking," she says. "That makes me sound sinister."

Richard chuckles and he takes her hand. "Come and dance with me," he says.

She follows him to the edge of the dance floor. Watson spins past with her mother again, and he winks at her. She grins at him before she puts her hand on Richard's shoulder.

"You're not going to tread on my feet, are you?" she asks. "Sam spent less time on the floor than he did on my toes, and I'm not sure I can take another round of that."

Richard chuckles and puts his arm around her waist. "I don't think so," he says. "Though it's been a long time since I danced with anybody."

Elizabeth smiles up at him. "I'm going to miss you," she whispers.

"I'm sure Mary Anne will be a frequent visitor," Richard answers softly. "We'll see each other."

"I hope so." Elizabeth slides her hand further up on his shoulder. "Sometimes, though, it'll be too hard to cross town." She smiles at him. "You'll have to have coffee with Sharon, on those days."

He laughs. "Will I?"

"Mm," Elizabeth sighs. "Promise me you will," she says. "Don't sit alone in your kitchen with my empty chair and coffee mug."

Richard laughs again. "I won't." He squeezes her hand gently. "I'll miss you, too," he says. "Who's going to tell me when the girls are arguing, or what to do when Mary Anne shouts at me?"

"Mary Anne doesn't shout," Elizabeth murmurs.

"See?" Richard sighs. "Correcting me again."

Elizabeth laughs and twirls slowly beneath his arm. "We were both alone for so long," she says. "But look at everything we did. We should be proud of ourselves, Richard."

He smiles at her and catches her hand again. The song has changed, but neither of them stop.

"We have a lot to be proud of," Richard agrees. "I'm sure there's more to come, yet."

Elizabeth catches sight of Sharon, her arm around Dawn, laughing at something Dee Pike has just said.

"Lots more," Elizabeth agrees. She holds his hand tightly and tilts her head. "I'm going to stop by Bradford Court sometimes," she says, "and sit on the front porch with you. Is that okay?"

"I could live with that," Richard answers.

"And I want you to keep the green mug for me when I come by."

"Nobody else shall have the green mug," Richard promises solemnly.

Elizabeth smiles. They dance slowly, watching other people drift past them.

"Happy?" Richard asks softly.

"I really am," she breathes. She smiles up at him. "And you, Richard? Are you happy?"

"Yes," Richard answers quietly, smiling back at her. "Very happy, thank you, Edie."


	9. Memory

**Title/Prompt:** Memory  
**Rating:** G  
**Word count:** 707  
**Summary:** "Andrew," Karen said, looking at him over the top of her book, "did you know a goldfish will forget everything after just three seconds?"

**Notes:** Livejournal has been on the blink lately, and while I was trying to post a different fic to babysitters100 (and it was failing, time and time again), I wrote this. It's very short and very fluffy and, I hope, rather cute. Thanks to lj user isabelquinn for beta'ing this for me, and stay tuned for another quick update soon. :)

Thank you so much to everyone leaving me comments and reviews! It's very encouraging :)

* * *

"Andrew," Karen said, looking at him over the top of her book, "did you know a goldfish will forget everything after just three seconds?"

Andrew looked up from his own book, the pages open to a colourful panorama of animals in a zoo. "No," he answered, and he glanced over to Goldfishie and Crystal Light the Second. They were swimming around in their bowl happily.

"That means they don't remember that I got them married," Karen sighed, turning back to her book.

Andrew got up and went to the fish bowl, resting his chin on the table and gazing mournfully in at the goldfish. They swam around, nudging the blue pebbles at the bottom of the bowl.

"Hi," he whispered. He watched them swimming for a while, wondering what they were thinking. He tried to think about what it would be like to only have a memory that lasted three seconds.

He counted, just to see how short the time really was.

_One, hippo-lot-amus, two, hippo-lot-amus, three, hippo-lot-amus._

Goldfishie eyed him through the glass.

"Hi," Andrew whispered again. "Remember me?"

Goldfishie swam to the bottom of the bowl and started nudging pebbles again. Andrew listened to them click together.

He thought about everything that had happened morning, and then tried to imagine what it would be like to forget it all. He tried to forget what he'd had for breakfast (toast and juice); he tried to forget that it had been sunny when he woke up (even though it was raining now); he tried to forget that Charlie had promised to take him and David Michael for ice cream later (he was going to get strawberry).

Andrew dobbed his finger gently against the bowl, leaving a warm smudge. He thought it was sad that Goldfishie and Crystal Light the Second would forget about him as soon as he went back to his book. He thought it was sad that they couldn't remember their wedding, or what they had for breakfast every morning.

His thoughts were interrupted when Kristy came into the room and Karen started talking to her.

"Kristy," Karen said very seriously, "did you know goldfish only remember things for three seconds? Then they forget everything again."

"I didn't know that," Kristy answered. She knelt and started gathering up their books. "Come on, guys, I know it's raining, but you've got books and board games scattered from one end of the house to the other."

Andrew turned back to Goldfishie. "That's Kristy," he whispered. "Remember her?"

Kristy bundled a pile of books into Karen's lap. "Take these upstairs and put them back on your shelf, okay?" she asked.

Karen closed her book with a thoughtful expression. "How long can rats remember things, Kristy? Would Emily Junior remember meeting me?"

"I really don't know," Kristy answered. "I think rats are pretty brainy, Karen, so maybe..."

Karen clutched her books to her chest, looking pleased, and left the room. Andrew kept peering in at the goldfish.

Kristy sighed and blew her hair out of her face. "What's wrong, Andrew?"

"Nothing," he answered.

Kristy knelt beside him, peering in at the pair of goldfish swimming around the bowl. "Are you worried about Goldfishie and Crystal Light the Second?" she asked him after a moment.

Andrew dobbed his finger against the glass again. "No," he answered, though he wasn't really sure.

"Goldfish aren't like us," Kristy said. "They're quite happy to be forgetful. I mean, every time Goldfishie sees Crystal Light the Second again, he thinks he's made a new friend."

This cheered Andrew slightly. "I guess," he said.

"And they don't have to remember anything important, like names or phone numbers," Kristy said. "All they have to do is remember their way around, and you've never seen them looking lost in there, have you?"

"I guess not," Andrew replied, smiling at Kristy.

Kristy grinned at him. "Want a snack?" she asked.

"Ants on a log?" Andrew asked hopefully.

Kristy sighed. "Gee, I don't know if I can remember how to make ants on a log..."

Andrew smiled at her, because he knew Kristy was just playing a game. "I'll remind you," he said, and he glanced at Goldfishie one more time before he led the way into the kitchen.


	10. Ocean

**Title/Prompt:** Ocean  
**Rating/Warnings:** Adult audiences/sex scene  
**Word count:** 4,585  
**Summary:** The beach is crowded with girls, and John Pike can't stop thinking about one in particular...

**Notes: **I had this written a few days ago, and with all the DDoS attacks on livejournal, was unable to post it. Anyway, it's up now! Enjoy!

Thanks to livejournal users isabelquinn and luxken27 for beta'ing for me!**  
**

* * *

John's friends are busy competing to see how many fries they can fit into their mouths, or how fast they can chug their milkshakes. They're laughing and jostling one another in the cramped confines of the booth, throwing balled-up napkins at one another and belching and snickering.

He laughs at them enough so they don't notice how distracted he really is. His attention is not on eating competitions or belching contests.

It's on the girl wearing the cherry-printed dress in the booth by the door.

Now and then the summer breeze blows through the plastic strips hanging over the entrance, and her hair waves lazily around her face. Her lips are painted red and before she takes a sip of her milkshake, she swirls the straw around in order to stir up the ice cream.

He thinks she's pretty, and he's embarrassed, because he doesn't think that he's meant to find girls _pretty_. He's meant to find them sexy or foxy or – or _something_. Pretty doesn't seem right. It seems embarrassingly real and somewhat pathetic, like suddenly he's revealing too much instead of hiding behind a curtain of smug remarks deemed suitable by his peers.

Tim is declared the winner of the fry-eating contest. He downs the rest of his soda in celebration, and then nudges John to get out of the booth. He slides out and his friends follow, talking about heading down to the beach in an effort to catch some sun – and maybe some skin, if they're lucky and if there are girls in flimsy bikinis.

He casts one last, longing look at the girl by the door as he passes by. She ignores him, listening intently to her friend's chatter and stirring the ice cream in her milkshake with her straw.

The sun is almost too bright. The sidewalk is jam-packed with other kids revelling in their summer break. They shout and laugh, jostling one another as they head for the beach or the cool shade of the diners and arcades and little tourist shops lining the street.

John and his friends head for the sand, following the sloping street, their flip flops slapping against their heels and the sun beating down on their shoulders. They pass by swarms of girls, all giggling and tanned, some of them shiny with suntan oil, and John feels a tightening in his belly as he catches eyefuls of bare skin and bikinis.

One of the swarms attaches itself to their group, and soon there's a tall blonde brushing her bare arm against John's and asking him where he's from.

"Hartford," he says. "Connecticut."

She says she grew up in Rhode Island, and by the time they get to the beach, she's slipped her hand into his and is asking him to help her with her suntan lotion.

He smiles, because it's summer break and because he's been lucky enough to catch a girl most days he's been here. It's something his friends joke about, and it's something that sometimes makes him feel a little self-conscious. Mostly, though, he feels pleased.

But when he pours the oil into his palm and runs it over the blonde's shoulders, he starts to wish he had better luck at attracting _certain_ girls to him. The ones he _really_ wants.

Like the ones that wear cherry-printed dresses.

* * *

John's days often begin late. Usually he wakes still tasting of beer, and the sun is already high in the sky. Sometimes there's a girl in the bed with him. Sometimes they're easy to shake, sometimes they're not.

It's not that he's against having just one girl, exactly. It's just that he's on vacation, and everyone his age is looking for multiples of everything. He figures this part of his life isn't going to last forever. He figures a different girl every couple of days is a pretty sweet deal. It's summer, and he's young. There's time to settle down later. Right?

He doesn't ever tell the girls he's looking for something serious. That way, he feels justified when he denies them more of himself. He still feels a little uncomfortable when it becomes obvious to them he's no longer interested. But their heartache never lasts long – they're on vacation too, after all, and there are plenty of others to fill his place.

Still, it makes him uneasy, and it makes him wonder if he was cut out for this in the first place. It makes him wonder why he came here, if this is all there is. He worries that maybe he's getting a little too good at swapping one girl for another, and he knows that deep down it's something he doesn't _want_to be good at.

John and his friends spend the afternoons on the beach. There are always parties. There's always alcohol, and music. Sometimes someone will pass a joint around. He always passes it on, because somewhere in there, even under the alcohol and the heady scent of summer and girls, John Pike knows that getting caught with a joint in his hand isn't a good idea.

He hasn't seen the girl in the cherry-printed dress again. He wonders why he's still thinking about her.

He puts his arm around a tanned brunette in denim cut-offs and a string bikini top, and she grins at him in the light of the bonfire.

"I'm Mandy," she breathes in his ear.

"I'm John," he says, and she presses her lips against the side of his neck.

* * *

He sees the girl again when he's swimming.

She's in a blue dress this time, and the bottom of it is wet around her knees. She's shrieking and laughing, running towards the waves and squealing when the cold water rushes over her ankles.

John is so busy watching her, Tim tips him up and he flounders about in the waves for a solid minute, trying to find his feet again as his friends roar with laughter and push him over again, dunking him beneath the water.

He's choking when he finally surfaces with salt in his eyes. "Assholes," he says.

They laugh, and Tim splashes him. "Stay alert, Pike." He launches himself forwards into a wave, cutting cleanly through the water, carving a strong stroke towards two girls who are watching him with admiration.

The girl – the pretty girl, the one in John's head with cherry prints and red lips – she's still on the beach, wandering along the wet sand, one hand clenching the soaked hem of her dress.

He wants to go and talk to her. He finds it easy to talk to the other girls. He puts his arm around them and they lean against him and flutter their lashes at him.

This girl, though, keeps him frozen, and he let the waves wash against his back as he watches her wander along the sand with her friends.

She disappears into the crowd, and he breathes heavily once she's out of sight, cursing himself for another lost opportunity.

* * *

She's on the beach, holding a bottle of beer. The fire lights up her hair and her warm skin.

She's in white, and the way her dress floats and shifts makes it seem almost transparent. It makes John's throat ache.

He moves his way around the fire, keeping his eyes on her so he doesn't lose her again. There's a boy next to her – younger than John. She laughs with him, and John narrows his eyes at his competition.

He stands just behind her and drinks his beer, listening to her as she talks. Her voice is clear and pretty. Everything about her is pretty.

He rubs his thumb over the wet lip of his beer bottle before he drains it, hoping it won't make his breath too bad. Hoping it'll give him the courage to finally say something to her.

"So where are you from?" John's competition asks her.

"Stamford," she answers.

"Where's that?"

John snatches the conversational opening with both hands. "Connecticut," he says, and she turns and looks up at him in surprise. He smiles at her, and she smiles back and the ache in his throat almost sends him to his knees.

"I'm from Newark," his competition says hopefully, still desperate to cling to his pretty companion.

"Where are _you_from?" she asks John, and she sways a little, looking up at him with that smile still on her face.

"Hartford," he says, and her smile grows.

"Connecticut!" she says, and he grins at her.

He wants to take her hand, but she's untouchable. She's pretty, and small and sweet and she's not like the other girls that he's had. She doesn't seem like a girl who wakes up in the morning with tousled hair and smudged makeup.

He breathes hungrily, as though he can smell her warmth, and she smiles at him again.

"I'm Dee," she says.

"I'm John." He smiles back at her again, nervous, desperate and afraid, and his competition curses and stomps away, spraying sand with his footsteps.

"I saw you swimming today," Dee says, swaying again, closing inches between them before she rocks back on her heels and distances herself once more. "Drowning, anyway."

He cringes, and she laughs at his embarrassment.

"I saw you, too," he says. "At least I got in." He nods towards the waves. There are still people swimming, though the sun has set. They're only just visible in the pearly moonlight; black shadows in the rolling water.

"It was cold," she says defensively. She grins at him and suddenly it's not just his throat that's aching, it's everything, everywhere.

"Want to go for a swim now?" he asks. His voice sounds strangely strangled.

"I don't swim with strangers," she answers. She lifts her beer to her lips and narrows her eyes at him. "I don't sleep with strangers, either, so if that's what you're after, don't waste your time."

Her audacity is like a shock of electricity straight to his chest. He shakes his head, but he can't find any words to back up his denial.

She smirks at him, but she doesn't walk away.

He wants to act cool. Usually, it's easy enough. He's attracted several different girls over the past week, anyway. One more shouldn't be _that _difficult...

"Want another beer?" Dee asks. She takes the empty bottle from his limp fingers.

"Yeah," he answers.

She smiles at him again.

* * *

Midnight finds John sitting with Dee in the shadows of one of the beach houses. Further down the beach, fires spot the darkness, and shouts and laughter can be heard over the solid beat of boom boxes.

"So are you here on vacation?" she asks him quietly, drawing her knees up and curling her arms around them.

"Uh-huh. Usually I work over the summer, but Tim just turned 21 and he wanted to take a break. His parents own the house we're staying in."

"Where do you work?" Dee asks, trailing her hand through the sand between their sitting bodies.

John watches her for a moment. His heart is beating like he's just run a marathon. He's embarrassed about it; about how pretty he thinks she is.

"I help out at my dad's law firm."

"That sounds okay," she says. "I waitress. I hate it." She digs her bare toes into the sand.

He wants to touch her. He wants to put his arm around her and breathe warmly against her ear. He wants to know what her hair smells like, what her skin tastes like, what her breasts feel like in his palm.

He dares not get any closer. He could stand being rejected by any of the other girls around the fire. He couldn't stand rejection from Dee.

"So are you in college, then?" she asks.

"Uh-huh." He wishes he could sound more intelligent. He _is_intelligent, he knows it. He can express himself with clever words and phrases; he can give confident smiles to anyone who looks his way...

Dee scatters his confidence and leaves him breathless and desperate for approval.

"What are you studying?"

"Law."

"Like your dad?"

"Uh-huh." He rolls his empty beer bottle between his palms. "Are you in college?"

"Mm-hm. I want to be a teacher. I love kids." She stretches, and John watches the clean curve of her arm in the moonlight. Dee watches the waves rolling in towards the beach.

"I'm kind of tired," she says after a while. "I should go to bed."

He's disappointed, but he can't find the words that will convince her to stay. "Okay," he says in defeat.

She looks at him in surprise, and smiles again. "Really? No convincing me to stay? No invitation to _your _bed?"

"Do you want one?" He's aware that his voice sounds a little too eager. He tries to counter it with a grin.

She laughs and shakes her head. "No." She gets to her feet and brushes sand off her dress.

He tries not to, but he can't help noticing the curves of her body as she smooths the dress under her palms. The ache in his throat comes back again.

"So will I see you around, then?" she asks after a moment. Her eyes focus on his shoulder instead of his face, and he wonders for a moment if she feels as self-conscious and hopeful as he does.

"Sure," he says. "Want to go for a milkshake or something?"

She beams, and bounces slightly on her heels, the sand sinking beneath her weight. "Okay," she says. "I'll find you."

"You will?"

She smiles and waves over her shoulder. "I know where to find you," she calls.

John's heart hammers in his chest. Suddenly, his confidence is back.

The girl who wears the cherry-printed dress is going to find him tomorrow.

He's never felt so good.

* * *

Dee wears a cotton dress in a sea of bikini-clad bodies, and John only has eyes for her. He suddenly realises that not seeing everything at once is _much _more tantalising than seeing nearly all of it.

The dress scoops low at the back, showing tanned skin and a slight scattering of freckles. He can't help but feel a little breathless whenever his eyes chance upon her skin.

She talks a lot. But that's okay, because listening to Dee isn't a chore. She's funny, and she smiles at him as she speaks, and words like _college_ and _history_ and _beach _have never sounded so wonderful before.

She wants to be a teacher. She loves kids. Her favourite season is summer, and she likes vanilla ice cream better than chocolate ice cream.

When the sun sets, John's standing in the low tide with her, watching seaweed bob and curtain in the waves.

"I hate it when it wraps around me," Dee admits, watching a big clump of it drift in the current. "It's gross."

He grins at her. If Tim and the others were here, they'd be throwing seaweed around, slapping one another with it, launching huge clumps of it spinning through the air. He's relieved to have escaped them for the day.

Dee steps forward into the waves. The water rushes up against her knees, and she lifts her dress up her thighs. Her smooth, tanned skin is lit up by the sun as it sinks down in the sky. For a moment all John can think about is pressing kisses against the soft inside line of her thigh.

The cold water of the sea is almost a relief. He lets it rush against his knees as he follows Dee into the blue water. She has her eyes closed and her face lifted to the sky, feeling the way with her feet.

He scoops a clump of seaweed out of her way, and she opens her eyes and spots him throwing it aside.

She smiles at him. "Thanks," she says, and she gives a small laugh, looking a little flustered and embarrassed.

He can't help it. It's all built up inside him to the point where it's a headache, now, and he's got to let it out. "You're beautiful," he says, and he reaches for her hand.

She lets him sweep her fingers into his grip, and she offers no resistance when he pulls her slowly towards him. She sloshes through the water with another smile, and drops the hem of her dress. It's soaked against the waves, and she stumbles a little.

John kisses Dee in the ocean with the sunset flagging her shoulders and lighting up her hair. Her mouth is warm and wet and sweet, and her cheek is smooth and soft in the palm of his hand.

* * *

"I don't usually do this." Her voice is a frantic whisper.

John's breath is ragged. The loose skirt of Dee's dress is clenched in his hand and her body is firm and warm against his. "We can stop," he assures her, though he thinks that if she asks him to stop, he'll physically break from the disappointment of it.

The house is dark and full of shadow and silver moonlight. Dee's bed is neatly-made and narrow, and she pulls John onto it, wet and sand-covered.

He kisses her again, hungry for her, and she folds herself around him. Her fingers are in his hair, her nails against his scalp, and his body is trembling from the sheer pleasure and excitement of having her so close.

She tastes salty like the sea, and underneath, John thinks he can taste vanilla from the milkshake he bought her.

"I mean it," she whispers desperately, her chest heaving when they break the kiss. "I don't usually do this."

"I know," he whispers back, though he doesn't, really. But he believes her. Deep down, beneath the heady rush of pleasure and excitement and nervousness, he knows he's incredibly lucky to be lying so twined with her.

She doesn't do this with just anyone. But John's not just anyone. John is _someone _to Dee, and that's why he's here, and the thought of it makes him dizzy.

He kisses her again and her body shifts and softens beneath him, adjusting to fit him to her, and she has to know – _has_ to know – how good it makes him feel, having her beneath him like this.

She takes his shirt in her fists and pulls at it, and he lets her tug it over his head. It catches on his shoulders and his arms and he struggles out of it and flings it to the floor impatiently.

He kisses the sweet curve of Dee's throat and she lets out a breathy giggle when he tickles her skin.

"I like you," she whispers.

John kisses her mouth again, warm, wet, slow. Dee breathes through her nose and he feels her breath on his cheek.

"I like you, too," he whispers, and his voice is husky and ragged, like he barely knows how to use it.

Like isn't an appropriate word, but love doesn't seem right either. It's too soon, and John's never been in love before. He doesn't think it's meant to happen this quickly.

But if it's not love, he's not sure what it is. Maybe there's no word for it yet – this thing he has with Dee.

She keeps her eyes on him when she unclips the button at the back of her neck. Her pupils are deep and dark in the pale moonlight spilling through the window. The halter straps to her dress sit loose against her skin.

John slides his fingers over her chest and eases one of the straps down, pulling the cup of material away from her bare breast. She's breathing steadily. Nervously.

He traces his initials over her heart with his finger before he cups her breast in his hand. Her nipple is a firm point against his palm, her skin warm and soft.

She kisses him again, leaning her body into his hands. Outside, the waves pound against the sand. John can hear them like a deep drum in his chest.

He peels the dress away from Dee's skin, brushing his lips across her body. She twitches and giggles nervously when his mouth rests against her breast.

He wants to ask her what she wants; where she wants him to touch her. But she's quiet now, and he doesn't want to embarrass her, so he trails his tongue over her and takes note of all the times her body jolts against his. He follows with his hands so she writhes and pants under him, mussing the blankets beneath her and clenching her fingers into his hair.

He slides her bikini bottoms down her thighs, watching her face as he flicks his tongue over the point of her hip. She keeps her eyes closed and there's a faint blush on her cheeks, though she urges her hips towards him.

He presses soft kisses up her thighs and he can taste the ocean on her skin.

When he closes his mouth over her and moves his tongue against her, she moans, and the sound of it drives itself down into his gut and makes him pant for air.

She reaches for him and he obeys, sliding over her, kicking his swimming trunks to the floor, bare skin against bare skin, warm and soft and ocean-bathed.

He moves slowly inside her, his fingers splayed against her hips, and she opens her eyes and looks up at him, her nose drawing lightly over the pulse in his throat.

She breathes out and sweeps one leg up across his lower back, pulling him close, hooking him to her.

They move slowly together, and John listens to her breath rush and pull against him. He holds her, smiling into her shoulder when she squirms and rolls against him, her hips moving, her chest heaving. He touches her everywhere and she whispers something hot and lost and desperate in his ear.

"Faster," she breathes. Her heels lock against the small of his back and he steadies one sweat-slickened hand against her hip, the other nestled into her hair, and he thrusts against her, listening to her whimper and gasp at every movement.

She comes, clenching around him, her nails digging into his skin, and her breath halts and then rushes out against his chest, her body tensing and trembling.

She swears. "Fuck," she gasps, and that's all it takes to pull John over the edge with her, his face buried against her neck and his teeth against her skin, grazing over her shoulder, his tongue wet against her as he shudders and sinks.

Dee's skin is sweat-dampened and warm. She breathes heavily, her arms locked around him. She looks up at him with dark eyes, her cheeks flushed in the pale night.

"John," she breathes.

* * *

The sky outside the window is clear and blue. The sun is high and John can hear laughter and shouting from the beach.

He closes his eyes again and breathes in the warm scent of Dee's skin. Her breast is warm and small in his hand, her body curved and nestled against his.

Sand is rough and prickly in the sheets, but it's a discomfort John has easily put up with. Dee has been beside him all night, breathing sweetly and deeply in her sleep.

She sighs, and he presses kisses against her shoulder until she stirs and rolls over, her eyes closed and a smile on her face.

"You're still here," she says. She nuzzles against his neck.

"Still here," he answers. He trails his hand down her spine and she squirms and opens her eyes.

"I was worried you'd leave," she admits softly, blinking at him.

He shakes his head and shifts slightly, pulling her closer and running his hands over her. He can feel sand, and it rolls between his palm and the smooth skin of her back.

"We should've showered first," Dee says, sweeping some of it out of the bed onto the floor.

John laughs, and she grins down at him. She kisses him softly, once, on the mouth.

"When do you go home?" she asks. Her voice is a whisper.

"Sunday." He pulls her hips towards him and her leg slides over him.

She pouts. "I go home a whole week after you do. Can't you stay longer?"

The thrill of her request burns through his body. He grins. "I can't. I gotta go back to work." He kisses the pulse in her neck.

"Oh," she sighs, sounding disappointed. She kisses him, and her hands drift over his chest and his stomach.

He feels hot and shaky. He keeps his hands on her hips, his thumbs tracing circles. "Maybe I could come and visit you sometime," he whispers hopefully, suddenly worried that the request is too much and too serious for a girl he only laid eyes on four days ago.

She grins at him. "Really?"

"If you want."

She kisses the point of his jaw and the hollow just behind his ear. He closes his eyes when her breath fleets across his skin.

"You taste like the ocean," she whispers. She smiles at him, and the light from the window glows warm against the side of her face.

John traces the sun down the straight line of her nose. Outside, the waves wash steadily against the beach.

"I wasn't sure I liked Sea City that much," Dee continues, her fingers curling against his skin, her thumb running along the stubbled edge of his jaw. "It hasn't been bad, so far."

He chuckles and smiles up at her. "I know what you mean."

She smiles back at him and her thigh presses soft and warm against his hip. "How far is Hartford from Stamford?"

"I don't know. A couple of hours, I guess."

"Maybe I could meet you half way." She looks shy and hopeful and he grins when he realises she likes him just as much as he likes her.

"What's halfway?"

She crinkles her nose when she thinks, and he curls his fingers into her hair, still wild and salt-roughened from the sea.

"Stoneybrook, I guess?" she whispers, bending closer to him. "I could meet you in Stoneybrook sometimes."

"Okay." He doesn't really care where he has to go. He wants to tell her he'd go anywhere for her, but at the same time he's still too scared; still too worried about what's too much or too serious.

"So aren't you worried I might meet another guy after you leave?" she asks. Her grin is teasing.

John rolls and pins her to the mattress beneath him, the blankets pulling against his skin, sand prickling their bodies. He looks down at her and he does worry, because he thinks she's too pretty to not have every other guy chasing after her. He doesn't know how he managed to find a window of opportunity – he thinks she probably has a guy chasing after her all the time.

"I'm worried," he admits, and he feels embarrassed, but he smiles at her anyway.

She trails her fingers across the back of his neck. "You don't have another girl back home or anything, do you?"

"No."

"You'd better not."

He laughs at her seriousness and the warning tone in her voice, and his stomach tightens again. He buries his face in her neck.

"Dee," he murmurs. He closes his eyes.

She wraps her arms around him and he kisses her again, smiling when they part for breath, his hips already moving slowly against her.

She still tastes like the ocean.


	11. Hands

**Title/Prompt:** Hands  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG, non-explicit adult situations.  
**Word count:** 1017  
**Summary:** Alma reveals a little superstition while on her honeymoon with Richard.

**Notes: **Omg this was written _forever_ ago. I held off on posting it because there's going to be a prequel and for a long time I wanted to finish that and post it before this one, but given how fuzzy my fic-brain is at the moment, I think I'm happy to just post this here and now.

Again, I feel like I need to point out that my personal canon has Richard Spier being a much more relaxed person before Alma's death. Not to say he didn't have elements of the canon Richard we all know, but he's definitely more relaxed here, and I hope that's forgiveable...

Thanks to livejournal users isabelquinn and luxken27 for beta'ing for me!**  
**

* * *

Alma opened Richard's hand and ran her thumb over the lines on his palm. "Look at that," she said with a smile. "Your life line is _long_, Richard Spier, but you're already so old it's started to –"

Richard growled and rolled her over, pinning her beneath him. She shrieked and started to laugh.

"I didn't mean anything by it," she said, smiling up at him.

"Sure you didn't."

She grinned and spread her hand beneath his. "Tell me my future."

Richard traced his thumb over the new gold band on Alma's finger, down to the lines on her palm. "Here's the part where you marry a handsome man," he said, dotting his finger against her skin. "And here's a honeymoon..."

Alma laughed again and wrapped her arms around him. "That's past and present," she said. "I already know that bit."

"Guess I'm no good at predicting futures, then," Richard said with a shrug. He smiled and kissed her gently.

Alma smiled and sighed. "Well, let me up, because I am."

Richard chuckled and rolled away from her, the sheets dragging across their bodies and the mattress sinking as he shifted his weight.

Outside, afternoon crowds walked in the warm sunlight. Noises from the street filtered up to Richard and Alma's window, which was ajar to the light breeze. The world was passing them by and neither of them cared.

"This is your love line," Alma said, pressing a kiss against Richard's open palm. She traced her finger over the crease in his skin.

"You said that was my life line."

She rolled her eyes. "You don't listen to me at all, do you?"

He laughed and laced his fingers with hers. "What does my love line say?"

Alma paused to think for a moment. She looked towards the window, the curtains shifting slightly as the summer air billowed in.

"Come on," he prompted, squeezing her hand.

Alma opened his palm again and pretended to study it carefully. "You're very in love," she said confidently.

Richard smiled. "Yes."

"With a beautiful woman far out of your league."

Richard gave a theatrical sigh, and Alma laughed and rolled onto her side, stretching out beside him. She watched him close his eyes and breathe deeply and contentedly.

"I love you," she whispered after a moment. She leaned over to kiss him before he could respond. She didn't want him to; she wanted her words to hang in the air between them.

"Let me explain my hands," she said, rolling closer to him again. Her hair curtained down and Richard caught the ends of it in his fingers.

Alma held her hand up between them. "Love line," she said.

"This one?"

"Mm." She smiled down at him as he dotted his finger against her hand again. "I think technically it's called the heart line, but I prefer love."

"I don't think there's anything technical about this," Richard teased, but he smiled at her again.

"Well, fine," Alma sniffed. "I won't tell you."

Richard chuckled and tucked Alma's hair behind her ear. "Tell me."

"Okay." She wriggled closer to him and he lifted his head so she could wrap her arms around his neck. She was pleasantly conscious of how naked they were and how comfortable she was becoming with it. "I read all about it in a magazine," she said. She paused, and then looked down at him with a small smile. "There's not much to do in Maynard."

Richard laughed.

"My love line says I'm a very loving sort of person," Alma said.

"It doesn't tell you the future, then?" Richard asked.

"I guess not," Alma admitted, leaning over him and pressing her brow against his. "My love line says I take love seriously and it's important to me and..." She trailed off and looked at her hand again, frowning a little. "And I'm sincere," she said after a moment.

"You are," Richard agreed. "But I knew that without looking at your hands." He smiled. "What does my love line say about me?"

She didn't bother looking at his hands. She propped herself up on her elbows above him. "You're sincere," she said. "And you worry a little bit too much, sometimes." She ran her thumb across the slight crease already marking itself on his brow. "You're a very serious person."

"You're making me sound quite boring, you know."

"Oh, no," Alma said in dismay. "These are all the things I love about you. They're not boring." She traced the end of her nose against his skin."There are other things. Like when you laugh..."

Richard smiled.

"I always love it when you laugh," Alma said softly. "Like I know a little secret about you no one else does."

"I do laugh in front of other people, you know," Richard said, looking amused.

"Not like you laugh with me," Alma said, smiling down at him. "It's different." She felt Richard's fingers splay out gently against the bare swell of her hip. "I like that you're different with me," she whispered. "It makes me feel important."

"You are important," Richard murmured.

"Well," Alma said softly, "I like being able to make you smile like no one else can."

He smiled at her again and she watched the corners of his eyes crease. She traced her fingers over his face.

"Anyway," she said after a quiet moment. "Getting back to the subject at hand..." She pressed her palm against his again. "Life lines."

"Hm," he sighed.

"Yours is a little bit longer."

"Naturally," Richard said with another smile, rolling his eyes. "Because I'm so old."

Alma laughed. "Uh-huh." She kissed him. "But mine's not far behind," she said. "I'll grow old with you, Richard."


	12. Money

**Title/Prompt:** Money  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG  
**Word count:** 4970  
**Summary:** John Pike has lost his job. As he battles with new feelings of inadequacy, his daughter, Claire, looks on the bright side.

**Notes: **This was like the second or third prompt I ever started, and then it sort of fizzled out. I opened it again today and decided to finish it. It's basically _Poor Mallory_ from John's POV, though I admit I've taken several liberties with canon. The main one is that I know it's summer in the book, but that it's not so late the kids aren't at school - and I've changed this slightly. It's sort of a mutated timeline. All I ask is that you view it with an open mind. ;-)

Thanks to lj users isabelquinn and lucida for their beta'ing and support!

* * *

The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second beating an echo in time with the pounding headache in John Pike's temples. He sat at his desk with his head in his hands, the evening sun pouring in through the small window behind him. After a few moments he stirred, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and breathed a soft sigh, before he slowly pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.

The envelope had come at five o'clock, with an empty box. Into the box went the envelope and the pink slip, the photo of Dee, the photos of the triplets and his daughters and Nicky with a gap-toothed smile. In went any files he dared take with him. In went his rolodex and a handful of pens from the bottom of his desk drawer. After a moment he tossed in his stapler and a mug from the staff kitchen, still rimmed with coffee stains.

He pulled the door closed behind him without a backward glance, a heavy weight of guilt and fear and shame in his stomach.

He drove home in silence, without the radio, without muttering to himself about meetings, or grocery items he'd been instructed to pick up on his way home. Numbers, often preceded by dollar signs, clashed angrily around in his mind. By the time he pulled into the garage, he had a splitting headache. The tension in his shoulders knotted all the way down his back as he reached for the door into his own home.

He had never dreaded opening that door before.

One glance at Dee was all it took. He saw the hope in her eyes flicker and fade. Her smile fell and his heart dropped in response. He looked away from her and concentrated on shrugging out of his jacket and loosening his tie.

She hurried to help him, folding his suit jacket over her arm, smoothing his tie in her hands. "It'll be okay," she whispered.

He nodded, daring to look at her again. Shame and frustration burned within him.

"Do the kids know?" He kept his voice soft.

"No. We'll have to tell them. Tonight."

He nodded silently; distractedly.

She looked up at him and squeezed his hand knowingly. "I'll get you some aspirin."

* * *

John stared up at the ceiling, listening to Dee brush her teeth. Light from the bathroom spilled across the foot of the bed.

The complicated hurricane of fear, anger and guilt still roiled within him. He'd managed very little dinner, spending most of the time staring down at his plate instead. He remembered snapping at the triplets a few times. He remembered Dee gently explaining what had happened, and that they would need to cut back on luxuries. He remembered she had said, in a quiet, clear voice, that she would be searching for work.

She flicked the bathroom light off and slipped into bed beside him. "Are you awake?" she asked softly, knowing very well he was.

"Mm," he answered.

She rested a gentle hand over his forehead before she shrugged herself down under the sheet. The ceiling fan rotated slowly above them.

"Stop worrying so much," she whispered, turning her head to look at him.

He kept his eyes on the ceiling fan. "We don't have any decent savings, Dee," he murmured, only half-listening to her.

"You'll get a severance package, won't you?"

"That won't last long, either," he muttered. "The triplets will eat through it in five minutes."

She smiled and propped herself up on her elbow. "I told you – I don't mind going to work. I'm not just a mom, you know. I'll be able to pick up temp work."

He turned to her, flashing a smile that must have appeared braver than he felt. He saw her relax slightly.

"It'll be okay," he said, repeating the words she had offered him so many times over the course of the evening. "I'll get up tomorrow and start searching. It won't take long."

"I know," she answered, smiling at him. She leaned over and kissed his forehead.

She fell asleep with her cheek against his shoulder, her breath deep and even against the thin cotton of his t-shirt. John lay awake for a long time.

* * *

"Daggles!"

The ear-splitting shriek caused John's eyes to fly open, but it was the impact of his youngest daughter throwing herself upon him that truly woke him. One of her knees landed on his stomach, the other landed distinctively south of there.

He gave a shout and a choke, rolling over and half-burying a giggling Claire. "Jesus," he croaked, opening one eye to look at her.

She beamed at him. "Are you staying home with me today?"

It all came crashing back. Ice gripped his chest. He nodded and closed his eyes again.

Claire scrambled off the bed excitedly. He heard her thundering down the stairs.

Dee emerged from the bathroom, her hair still wet, her face pink and clean. She smiled at him. "Good morning."

He groaned into his pillow.

"You have to get up, honey. Today's a busy day. We're both sending out résumés and making phone calls this morning."

"Give me a moment to recover from Claire's excitement," he muttered.

Dee's fingers stroked lightly over his back as she passed him. "Chin up," she said softly. "This could be exciting. This is a whole new opportunity."

He reached his hand out and she took it so he could squeeze her fingers gently. He kept his face buried in his pillow so she couldn't see the despair he was feeling.

* * *

"You've never picked me up from kindergarten," Claire babbled, swinging her father's hand back and forth as she gripped it tightly.

He looked down at her in amusement. "Is it really that exciting?"

"Dad, what's a baggage?" Claire asked, looking up at him with wide blue eyes.

"A what?" he asked, feeling a little disorientated from the rapid change in subject.

"Mallory says our house is a baggage and the bank will take it if we get too poor," Claire rattled on. She stopped sharply and bent to inspect her shoelaces, which she had just spent ten minutes on, painstakingly knotting them into large bows.

John's arm stretched and jolted him to a halt as Claire's tiny weight remained still and tense on the sidewalk.

"I think you mean a mortgage," he said after a moment, aiming a twinge of annoyance towards Mallory. "The bank won't take our house, honey. We have enough money to pay the mortgage."

"Oh, good," Claire answered brightly, skipping alongside him again. "Do we have enough money to buy me a Skipper doll?"

"I think the Skipper doll will have to wait a while," John answered apologetically.

He helped Claire into the car, making sure she was safely buckled in before he slid behind the wheel. He glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.

"We've got to get a couple of things from the store," he said. "Okay?"

"Okay," Claire answered, waving to one of her friends through the window. "Did you get a new job yet?"

He smiled and glanced at her in the mirror again as he steered the car into the street. "Not yet. It might take a while."

"So you can pick me up again tomorrow?"

"I suppose so."

Claire's voice lowered to a sombre hush. "And, Daddy?" she asked quietly.

He glanced at her in the mirror once more. "What is it, Claire?"

"Are you feeling better?" she whispered, looking quite afraid of daring to ask.

He pulled to a halt at a red light. "Much better," he answered. Mostly, it was the truth. The sheer volume of jobs listed in the local papers was quite heartening, and he had felt a twinge of excitement as he'd labelled envelopes to send his résumé out in several directions to several different companies earlier that day.

Dee had given him a knowing smile, and his heart had felt a little lighter. Sometimes he thought his wife was too clever for her own good.

* * *

His good mood was fleeting. The store was crowded with wives and mothers steering shopping carts around; ordering their children to leave the aisles that tempted them with packets of chocolates and cookies.

John told himself it was ridiculous to feel so self-conscious. Claire kept a tight grip on his hand and a running commentary on the items she wished they could still buy. He wanted to tell her to keep her voice down, but he had a feeling that would prompt tears, and possibly a tantrum.

Loaded with loaves of bread and bags of apples, he and Claire stood in line, each of them growing more and more impatient.

"Did we forget anything?" Claire asked hopefully, eyeing a display of Snickers bars by the checkout.

"No," John answered firmly. "Bread for sandwiches, and apples for school lunches. The rest can wait."

Claire pouted, but didn't argue. Her wide eyes stayed glued to the Snickers bars, as though she could make one hover into the air and over to her pocket if she concentrated hard enough.

"Oh, John..."

He turned at the voice, which was already dripping with sympathy. Caroline Gardella stood behind him with a cart laden with groceries. "I heard," she said, offering him a look of pity.

He felt annoyance and shame grip hold of him again. He cleared his throat and offered a jerky nod, not sure how she expected him to respond.

"I mean," she continued, the infuriating look of pity still on her face, "We all expected it, didn't we? The reports coming out of that company indicated the worst."

"I suppose," he answered, inching forward a little as the line moved ahead. "We're not too worried," he added after a moment. "Something else will come up."

Claire gave him a wide smile and he combed his palm clumsily over the top of her head.

He could feel Caroline's eyes boring into his back, though she never said anything else. He didn't turn back to offer other topics of conversation. He kept his head down and his shoulders bent, his good mood in shreds.

* * *

Dee was warm and drowsy as John slid between the sheets.

"How do you do it?" he sighed, burrowing into his pillow. "I'm exhausted. Claire wore me out."

Dee chuckled quietly and shifted her hand across the mattress towards him. "She'll settle down."

Exhausted though he was, John couldn't feel sleep coming to him anytime soon. He watched his wife breathing quietly beside him.

"I ran into Caroline Gardella at the store," he muttered after a moment.

Dee's brow wrinkled as she tried to place the name.

"Tennis club," he added after a moment. "Thinks a lot of herself."

"Oh," Dee answered, her brow smoothing again. "Mm?"

He realised, then, how petty and ridiculous the story would sound. He couldn't put it into words, anyway – the cold, heavy weight he was carrying everywhere. The way people's eyes fell on him, pity wavering in their depths. He hated it.

"Never mind," he muttered after a moment.

Dee's eyes opened long enough for her to find his cheek with her hand, her thumb stroking along the edge of his jaw. "Stop worrying," she whispered. "We'll be all right. Nobody thinks any less of you, John."

His heart sank. Certainly his own opinion of himself was lower than it had been three days ago, and he was sure it wouldn't take long before everyone else started to catch up.

* * *

It took a lot of self-control not to slam the phone down. With a shaky hand, John ran his pen through the last number on the list. He'd spent all afternoon making phone calls, and none of them had gone very well. His confidence was at an all-time low.

Somehow, it was worse not having Dee there. He knew he should be relieved, and proud, that she had found a job. And he was. He was. But he was also insanely jealous and resentful. In all their years of marriage, _he_ had been the provider. He had worked hard to provide for her, and he had loved doing it. Now he was feeling rather useless, and he loathed the fact he was the cause of the sudden changes they were going through.

He had always identified himself first and foremost as a father and husband, and he was guilty and rather shocked to realise that his identity had been so tied to his job. He felt lost.

Movement in the doorway caught his eye, but when he glanced up, he was alone.

"Claire," he sighed, "I can see you."

She peered around the doorframe at him. "Are you done?" she asked timidly. "Do you have a job yet?"

John glanced at the clock and scrubbed his palms tiredly over his face. "Not yet."

She slumped into the chair beside him. "It's taking a long time," she said.

John nodded, but noticed the somewhat-guilty look on Claire's face. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Her bottom lip trembled. "I don't want you to go back to work," she wailed.

He gave her a tired grin and reached for her, and she scrambled into his lap and tucked her head under his chin, sniffling quietly.

"I have to go back to work," he said after a moment. "You want a new Skipper doll, don't you?"

"Uh-huh," Claire answered pathetically, scrubbing her fist across her eyes.

"Well, I can't buy you one until I have a new job," John sighed, glancing mournfully down at the crossed-out numbers on the pad.

"Mallory said we need to stop wasting television," Claire mumbled after a moment.

John frowned, trying to track Claire's comment to comprehension. "It wouldn't hurt for you all to remember to turn things off, once you're done with them," he said eventually. "But don't listen too much to Mallory, honey. She's worried, but none of you need to be _that_ worried."

"Because you can pay the baggage," Claire said in a small voice.

He kissed the top of her head. "Uh-huh. And we can pay for the television, too."

Claire reached her hand out to the notepad on the table and ran her finger down the list. "What are all these numbers?"

"Phone numbers of companies I'd like to work for," John answered. "Keep your fingers crossed one of them wants me, hm?"

Claire knotted her fingers together and looked up at him. "Will Moozie come back when you get a job?"

"Hopefully she won't have to work anymore," John answered, rather evasively. "Come on – the other kids will be home soon, and I think they'll expect a snack. You can help me."

She beamed up at him and he lifted her, swinging her slightly and gently dropping her onto the counter. He glanced down at her hands.

"You can uncross your fingers for this, silly-billy-goo-goo."

* * *

Dee yanked the blankets down on the bed, scattering pillows and throw-cushions to the floor.

"How long is this going to last?" John asked grumpily, sitting down on the edge of the bed and stripping his shirt over his head.

"As long as it has to," Dee snapped.

"I meant the argument," he shot back at her over his shoulder.

"So did I."

He felt her weight shift the mattress behind him. He loosened his belt and kicked his pants to the floor, sliding under the blankets and leaving his clothing crumpled on the carpet. Dee's body was tense and curled on the edge of the bed, well away from him.

He stretched out on his back, his jaw tight. "Is there anything in _particular_ that I did wrong?" he asked finally.

She muttered something under her breath and then sat up, looking over at him angrily.

"There's a _mountain_ of laundry there," she said waspishly. "And papers are scattered all over the house. Do you honestly expect me to come home and –"

"No," he answered abruptly. "But do you really think I sat here on my ass all day doing nothing? I forgot about the laundry, Dee; I'm sorry. And the papers are probably covered in telephone numbers and addresses of companies I'm trying to get interviews with, or they're fucking rejection letters from –"

"Keep your voice down!" she snapped.

He rolled over and kept his back to her, his body tense and aching with anger. Dee curled beneath the sheets again, and emptiness stretched between them.

* * *

John felt as though he'd spent more time watching the clock than sleeping. Saturday morning showed pink around the curtains, and tiredness weighed heavily upon him.

Saturday. The kids would be all over the house, tramping in and out, arguing, laughing. John usually loved Saturdays. Sometimes Claire and Margo would run in, giggling, throwing themselves onto the bed between their parents, demanding long lists of impossible breakfast foods.

Saturday morning meant sitting on the couch with coffee in his hand and Dee's feet in his lap as she flipped through the paper.

He breathed an inaudible sigh and rolled over to face her. She still had her back to him, and her breathing was deep and even.

He slid his way across the mattress and wrapped his arm across her, pulling her against him. She grumbled and gently kicked him.

"I'm not forgiving you that easily," she said, her voice half lost in her pillow.

He traced his nose across the back of her neck and rested his forehead against the warm curve of her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'll do the laundry today."

She gave a soft chuckle and rolled over to face him. She looked tired. "Did you sleep?"

"No."

"Good." She closed her eyes again, but there was a smile on her face. "Serves you right for disagreeing with me."

He smiled, but it was fleeting. "I've already lost my job," he said miserably. "I don't want to lose you too."

"Idiot," she said, opening her eyes and smiling at him. "It was only an argument. Don't be so melodramatic."

He grinned and kissed her gently. "I hate this," he whispered. "I feel useless."

She snuggled into him. He felt her lashes blink closed against his throat. "You're not useless," she murmured. "We need _you_. Not your job."

John rubbed his hand up and down her arm. "I never realised how much I defined myself by my job," he said. "I feel like I've lost a really important part of me." He paused. "Then I feel guilty for feeling that way."

"Ah," Dee murmured, shaking her head, "you're still a pretty good catch."

He chuckled and pulled her closer, right up against him. "Thanks, Dee-Dee."

She hooked her leg over his hip. "You're welcome, John-John."

* * *

John winced as Claire gripped her fists into his hair, looking out over the crowd in the mall.

"That way!" she cried, pointing.

John sighed and followed Claire's finger. She was sitting on his shoulders, and he was acutely aware of the various, glittering shop fronts all around him, trying to lure his youngest daughter with the promises of expensive treasures. Signs that displayed brightly-lettered _Christmas in July!_ sales were everywhere.

"You know what, Dad?" Claire asked for a moment, accidentally pulling on his hair again.

"What, Claire?"

"You should be Santa," Claire said. "He gets stuff for free."

John grinned and tugged on her foot. "He doesn't get stuff for free, you goose. He gives it away. And believe me, when you're older, you'll realise it works out to be sort of expensive."

"We could be your elves!" Claire said, ignoring him. "Except Mallory, because she's already a baby-sitter and she's kind of busy."

"She is sort of busy, isn't she?" John answered, frowning in concern as he surveyed the crowd, trying to find the triplets.

"She's trying to earn money so we don't go homeless," Claire answered.

John sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I told you, that won't happen," he said.

"I said that," Claire answered happily. "She said I was too little to understand."

John turned, hanging onto Claire's legs so she didn't topple from his shoulders. "Can you see the triplets?"

Claire twisted around, tugging John's head back. "I thought I did," she said. "I guess not. Can we get ice cream?"

John shook his head. "Not today."

* * *

"The mall sucks when you don't have any money," Jordan complained, stabbing his fork into his mashed potato.

Mallory shot him a look that indicated he should shut up.

"What were you going to buy?" Claire asked, kicking her heels against the legs of her chair.

"_Claire!_" Margo whined. "You kicked me!"

"Did not!" Claire fired back. "You got in my way!"

"Enough," Dee said patiently.

Claire turned to Jordan expectantly. "What were you going to buy?" she asked again.

Jordan shrugged and shovelled a forkful of peas into his mouth. "Dunno," he said. "Nothing. It just sucks knowing you _can't_ buy anything."

"Pass the potatoes, please!" Mallory cried, shooting Jordan another look.

John breathed a quiet sigh and caught Dee's eye across the table. She smiled at him.

* * *

John felt tired. It wasn't just 'lack of sleep' tired, it was _tired _tired_._ Summoning the energy to get out of bed in the morning sometimes felt impossible. The temptation of wasting the day in front of the television seemed to grow stronger every moment, and the pile of rejection letters on his desk in the den made it difficult to face sending further applications out.

"Daddy?"

He spun slowly in his desk chair to find Claire standing in the doorway, Frodo clutched in her hands.

"What is it, Claire?" he asked.

She approached him cautiously. "Did you find a job yet?"

"You asked me that this morning," he said wearily. "The answer is still no."

"Oh," Claire answered. She looked as disappointed as John felt, and he realised he wasn't doing a very good job of hiding his frustration or worry from her.

He held his arms out and she bounced closer to him. Frodo's eyes bulged a little.

"Careful," John said, pulling his youngest daughter onto his lap. "Don't squeeze him too tight."

Claire settled Frodo on the folds of her dress and stroked him gently. "What will happen to Frodo if you don't get a job?" she asked. "Will we have to sell him?"

John laughed and breathed a sigh. "No, Claire."

Claire leaned her cheek against her father's chest. "And Sarge? He sleeps a lot but I still think we should keep him."

"We can keep Sarge too, okay? Though I might have to sell the triplets, if they keep eating so much."

Claire looked up at him worriedly. "Really?"

He grinned and shook his head, and she giggled and cuddled into him again. "I like having you home," she said.

John kissed the top of her head. He felt guilty again. Poor Claire had made sure she could keep the pets, and once satisfied, was fervently hoping John wouldn't find a new job. He wished he felt the same way. He wished he could feel satisfied with things the way they were, but the truth was he'd never felt so utterly useless in his life.

* * *

Even Dee's positive energy was starting to wear down.

She kicked her shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed beside him. "No luck?"

John shook his head and she leaned her cheek against his shoulder.

"I'm starting to wonder if I should just throw in the towel and start my own baby-sitting business," John muttered.

Dee laughed and put her arm around his shoulders. "You could always join the existing one."

John pulled a face and stretched out across the bed, pulling her with him. "Let's keep it at Plan B for a while longer," he sighed.

Dee kissed his cheek. "Maybe we should start looking further afield," she said softly. "Maybe we have to move."

"No," John said firmly, shaking his head. "It'll upset the kids, and it'll upset you..." He kissed her forehead. "We're staying here."

Dee sighed and smiled. "Oh, good," she said. "When you say things like that, I remember why I love you so much."

He laughed and wrapped his arms around her. "Don't give up," he pleaded quietly. "I need you to keep telling me it'll be okay."

She kissed the end of his nose. "It'll be okay."

* * *

It had been a company he'd applied for on a desperate, last-ditch attempt. He'd felt under-qualified, he'd felt as though his experience lay too heavily in another field, and he'd forgotten about his application almost as soon as it had left his hand.

John stared down at the note he'd scribbled on the pad attached to the fridge; the time and date of his interview. The offer still rang in his ears, and it took him a moment to realise the usual clatter of the Pikes' evening meal had dulled to complete silence.

He looked around to the table in surprise, until he realised they were silent because of his phone conversation.

Dee's eyes were wide and hopeful. He grinned at her and she leapt up, her chair skating back across the floorboards.

"Did you get a job?" Nicky asked.

"An interview," John answered, and he could feel the grin on his face, so wide it felt impossible. Suddenly his soul felt lighter and his shoulders seemed straighter.

Mallory led a chorus of cheers, though John noticed out of the corner of his eye that Claire seemed a little disheartened.

Dee wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

"_Eww_," the triplets chorused.

"Told you," she breathed, smiling at him.

He grinned. "It's just an interview, Dee. Nothing certain."

"Nonsense," she murmured, kissing him again. "I'd hire you. Everything will be fine."

He laughed and squeezed her, and for the first time since losing his job, he truly, truly believed her.

* * *

John tiptoed into Claire and Margo's room. The sounds of soft, deep-sleep breathing filled the air.

He rested his hand against Claire's back and shook her gently. "Claire?"

She squirmed under the blankets and mumbled, opening sleepy eyes to look up at him.

"Shh," he whispered, holding his finger to his lips. "Don't wake Margo."

Claire sat up, tousle-haired and bleary-eyed. She held her arms up and John lifted her and carried her from the room. He helped her dress in the bathroom, pulling a t-shirt gently over her head and clumsily combing her hair, still not sure if he was doing it the way Dee did it for her.

"Where are we going?" she asked, grumpy from being woken.

"Shh," John reminded her. "It's a secret. Come on, before the others wake up."

He carried Claire downstairs and hurriedly sliced her an apple for breakfast, carrying three pieces as she ate the fourth. He could hear the triplets bickering over video game controllers down in the basement.

Claire chewed her apple as John buckled her into the back seat of the car. "Are we going to your new work?" she asked.

"No," John answered, handing her the rest of her apple. He sank into the driver's seat and reversed out of the drive way, shooting a slightly guilty look back to the house. He knew his other children would be upset about being left behind.

Stoneybrook was waking up. He raised his hand in greeting to Rioko Kishi as they drove past, and she held up her gardening secateurs in response before turning back to dead-head her roses.

Claire waved to a couple of kids John didn't recognise, and they waved back, wobbling dangerously on their bikes.

Claire munched her apple happily. "Daggles?" she asked.

"Yes, Claire?"

"Can I come to work with you when you start your new job?"

He grinned and glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. "No, honey. You have to go to kindergarten. Besides, I think you'd get bored, sitting and watching me work all day."

"No I wouldn't!" she answered eagerly. "I want to see how you make money for television and baggages." She hesitated for a moment before trying the correct word. "Morbridges," she ventured.

"It's very, very boring," John promised, steering the car into the mostly-empty parking lot.

Claire's eyes widened and she pressed her nose to the window, her breath fogging the glass. She let out an excited shriek and John smiled as he parked the car.

He turned in his seat and met Claire's excited grin with one of his own. "I promised you a Skipper doll, remember?"


	13. Blue

**Title/Prompt:** Blue  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG  
**Word count:** 11498  
**Summary:** As Stoneybrook swelters through its worst heatwave in decades, Mary Anne finds herself alone and anxious about what's yet to come - until she runs into Alan Gray.

**Warnings:** Language, discussion of drugs. Possibly triggering for anxiety and depression.

**Notes: **This has been a work in progress for, like, eight months now? It's such a relief to have it finished. I'm terribly sorry about the novel-like word count...

Thanks to lj users isabelquinn and luxken27 for beta'ing. Any remaining errors are mine and mine only. (Except for - if it happens - the spaceless itallics. FFN, for some reason, likes to take spaces out from between italicised words. I'm not sure how to fix that. Fingers crossed it won't happen this time...)

For lj user lucida, who has been waiting so patiently for this ever since I first pitched the idea.

Also, happy birthday, babysitters100! Our livejournal community had its first birthday this week. What an amazing place to enjoy fandom and share fic. Love to you all.

* * *

Mary Anne frowned at herself in the mirror, examining the tired circles beneath her eyes and the lank locks of hair falling from her ponytail. For a moment she practised what she would say if (when) someone asked her why she looked the way she did.

_It was hot last night. I couldn't sleep. I'm fine – really, I am._

She dragged the elastic from her hair and stepped into the shower, washing away tiredness and the sweat that had come with the stifling heat of the summer night.

Stoneybrook was suffering its worst heatwave in decades. Temperatures soared to new heights each day. The sun forced itself down upon the town, which lay dry and baking, buckling and shimmering beneath the wide, pale sky.

Mary Anne shaved her legs as she waited for the conditioner in her hair to penetrate the follicles, or whatever it claimed to do in the designated three minutes. As she moved the razor over her skin, she ran through a mental check-list of kitchen appliances that were currently toiling away downstairs.

_The fridge_, she thought first. That was the one that gave her the most worry. The most worry because it was so big, and even at night she could hear it humming sometimes. She knew she couldn't turn it off, no matter how much she wished to.

_The coffee machine_, she thought next. The coffee machine wasn't so bad. She could always unplug it again after her father was done using it.

_The toaster_. She pictured her step-mother slathering two toasted slices of wholegrain bread with avocado or natural peanut butter.

_The radio. Maybe_. Sharon liked to listen to the radio in the kitchen. Richard liked to read the newspaper at the table in peace. It depended on what mood either of them were in. Mary Anne was never sure which one of them would win the playful little morning argument they had each day.

When she turned the shower off and pulled the curtain back, her reflection in the mirror seemed less tired, less bruised by exhaustion. She dressed in a loose t-shirt and shorts, raking her wet hair back into another ponytail, high off the back of her neck. The summer heat had made her consider cutting it short again.

Her father was absorbed in the business section of the morning's paper when Mary Anne slipped into the chair opposite him. The radio was blaring away on the windowsill. Mary Anne could hear Sharon singing along as she rummaged in the fridge.

_"Little darlin', it seems like years since it's been here; here comes the sun, here comes the sun..."_

Richard folded the paper as Mary Anne poured herself a glass of juice. "Good morning, Mary Anne."

"Good morning." She gave him what she hoped was a bright smile.

Sharon kicked the door of the fridge closed and sang toward Mary Anne. _"Little darlin', the smiles returning to the faces..."_

Mary Anne let her see the same smile she had given her father. Sharon twirled away to pour herself some tea.

Mary Anne frowned as she realised she'd forgotten to add the electric kettle to her check-list.

"Did you sleep well?" her father asked. He was still watching her.

Mary Anne snapped herself out of her thoughts about red-hot wiring and electricity and gave him another smile. "Not really," she admitted. "It was too hot."

Richard looked sympathetic. He nodded. "It was very hot last night. Did you sleep with the fan on?"

For a moment, Mary Anne felt the familiar prickle of fear and distrust race up her spine. "It doesn't make much difference," she said. "If I put the fan on, the noise keeps me awake."

She wasn't always sure her father believed her. Sometimes she was sure he knew exactly what the problem was but was simply too afraid or nervous to discuss it with her.

She was somewhat relieved about this, though she often admitted to herself that it would be easier if he knew the real reason – that she wasn't sleeping with the fan on because she was afraid the wiring in it wasn't safe. Because she was afraid she would wake in the night with smoke billowing through the house.

She felt him watching her as she helped herself to breakfast. She kept her movements easy and light, and tried to make her eyes bright and focused, as though her mind was happy and alert and ready for the day ahead. After a moment Richard got up to put his breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. He touched the top of her head lightly on the way past.

It both reassured her and shamed her. She didn't like lying to him, and hiding the truth certainly felt a lot like lying.

* * *

The library was dim and warm. The ceiling fans were rotating at full capacity, wobbling around in their fixtures. Loose papers on desks were weighted down with staplers or piles of paperback novels.

Mary Anne pushed the book cart between the towering rows of fiction, putting away people's returned holiday reading.

Now and then she'd stop and thumb through the pages, though it seemed to her she had already read every book Stoneybrook Public Library had to offer.

Mrs. Kishi found her when she reached the Young Adult section. "Mary Anne?"

Mary Anne made renewed efforts to look bright and awake as she smiled at Mrs. Kishi.

"Why don't you go home?" Mrs. Kishi suggested. "Nobody's here. Take the afternoon off."

"Oh, it's fine," Mary Anne assured her. "I don't mind."

Mrs. Kishi smiled and shook her head. "There's nothing else for you to do. Go on home."

Mary Anne didn't argue, though she would have much preferred the stifling library to her own house.

Going home made her feel anxious. It still didn't _feel_ like home, though she had certainly lived there longer than she had ever lived in the old farmhouse.

She left Mrs. Kishi to stack the shelves alone, at the woman's insistence, and stepped out into the afternoon heat. The sidewalks shimmered, and the air smelled of hot asphalt and dry grass. She could hear the whining drone of air conditioners as she walked down Main Street.

She didn't want to go home, but it was too hot to be outside. She frowned and stood in the shade of an awning as she tried to decide where to go. Bellair's would be air-conditioned, but no doubt crowded, as everyone tried to shelter from the sun.

_Hundreds of people all clamouring for the same emergency exit..._

She clamped down hard on that thought, forbidding it to go any further. She pulled the elastic from her hair and ran her fingers through the strands, trying to even out the kink from her ponytail.

_I could go somewhere for ice-cream, or a soda..._

She chewed her lip. Sitting alone with melting ice-cream didn't seem terribly appealing. For a moment, she considered calling Kristy, or Mallory, or _someone_. She clamped down on that thought as well.

She wandered along the street, not paying attention to much in particular. Nobody was around – it was too hot to simply venture outside with no plan of how to get from one air-conditioned point to another. Most people stayed indoors, muttering back and forth between themselves about how horrific the weather was and whether or not the heatwave would break soon.

She walked up the shaded side of Essex Road and found herself near the Rosebud. She found herself wishing Logan still worked there, just so she could go inside and find herself with _someone_.

Mary Anne suddenly realised how lonely she had become. She wondered if this was the reason she felt so anxious and on edge all the time, until she remembered it had been the anxiety which had caused her to withdraw from her friends in the first place.

A large part of her knew how silly she had been. Her friends wouldn't have made fun of her or belittled her in any way if she'd confessed her fears to them.

Still, enough time had passed now that Mary Anne felt going back was too big a step. And there was another part of her – a small voice, but quite an insistent one – that reminded her that none of her friends had held out long enough to find out exactly what was wrong.

"Hey, Mary Anne."

She turned in surprise as she heard her name, only to see Alan Gray swinging himself off his bike. Dark patches of sweat stained his t-shirt, and his face was red and shiny. He locked his bike to the rack and wiped his brow.

"Hi," Mary Anne blurted after a long moment, realising she hadn't yet responded to him. "How are you, Alan?" She willed her face to stay a normal colour, even as she felt embarrassment and awkwardness creeping up inside her.

"Hot," he breathed. "I need a soda. Want one?" He pushed past her into the Rosebud without a backward glance. Mary Anne wondered if it had been a serious invitation. She hesitated for a brief moment before she felt the heat of the sun on the crown of her head, and followed him inside.

Alan sank into a booth with a sigh of relief, running his hand over his hair so it stood on end. He grinned at her as she sat opposite him, feeling nervous and unsure. She wondered if he was about to laugh and tell her to get lost, that he hadn't been serious, that he hadn't thought she'd take him up on his offer.

She wondered why she had. She blamed it on the heat and the fact she was surviving on very little sleep.

"Soda?" he asked.

"Sure." She cautiously set her bag on the seat beside her and glanced around. The Rosebud seemed mostly empty, the lunch rush finished. Waitresses were clearing tables of napkins and glasses with melting ice cubes in the bottom.

Alan waved a waitress over and included a plate of fries and a cheeseburger as well as their sodas. "I haven't had lunch," he explained to Mary Anne. "So, you waiting for someone?"

Mary Anne swallowed nervously as she realised Alan had thought she was standing out front waiting for a friend.

She said what felt easiest. "I don't think they're coming anymore."

Alan nodded, though she wasn't sure he'd really heard her. He looked exhausted.

"Why were you riding your bike so fast?" she asked, noting a tone of disapproval that sounded terribly like her father. She cleared her throat and hurried on, forcing herself to sound a little more light-hearted. "Isn't it too hot to be riding around town?"

"Guess so," Alan agreed, his eyes following each waitress as they passed by. He drummed his fingers on the table. "Nothin' much else to do though. And I was hungry, so I came here."

"Oh," Mary Anne answered. She twisted her fingers together beneath the table. She wasn't sure what to say to him. She had known Alan for a long time, but their proper conversations were very few and far between. She tried to remember talking to him outside of a school setting, and found herself struggling to remember anything at all.

He didn't seem bothered by the fact she wasn't very talkative and, after a few moments, she began to relax a little. She glanced around the café again, noting the exits and eyeing the lights in the ceiling rather critically.

Their sodas arrived, and Alan gulped several large mouthfuls, sighing in relief as he set the half-emptied glass down again. "That's better," he breathed.

"You might be dehydrated," Mary Anne said. "Maybe you should have some water."

Alan rolled his eyes. "If I faint, you can splash some on me."

She took a dainty sip of her soda through her straw.

"When is the weather supposed to cool off?" Alan groaned, resting his head in his hands.

"I don't know," Mary Anne answered heavily. "The forecast for the rest of the week looks similar to today."

Alan pulled a face. "I hate summer."

"Me too," Mary Anne agreed, without really thinking about her answer. "The only good thing about it is no school."

"I thought you liked school," Alan said, craning his neck to check on the progress of his cheeseburger and fries.

"I like summer vacation better," Mary Anne answered.

They sat in silence for a while. Mary Anne still felt slightly uncomfortable, not familiar at all with the sort of person Alan Gray was outside of a classroom.

He didn't seem bothered by anything other than how long his food was taking. His eyes lit up when the waitress finally set the plate in front of him. He grabbed a handful of fries, immediately assuming a much cheerier disposition.

"So, what have you been doing to beat the heat?" he asked. "I was gonna go to the brook but it looks like most of the pools have dried up."

"There are still some at the far end of Burnt Hill Road, by the bridge," Mary Anne said. "But that's a long way to ride your bike, just for a swim."

Alan nodded and chewed his fries. "I just want summer to be over. Sometimes it gets so bad you don't want to leave the house..." He trailed off, and Mary Anne had the impression he had wanted to say more.

For a moment she turned her glass of soda around and around in her fingertips, until she was struck by sudden bravery and curiosity. "Do you ever worry about fires?" she asked. She felt her cheeks growing hot already, the question sounding odd and stupid. She kept her eyes down and hastened to explain herself. "I mean, everything is so dry and we've had no rain..."

"I guess that's true," Alan said, frowning and biting the ends off of several fries. "I hadn't really thought about that, to be honest. I just want it to cool down so I can get some decent sleep."

Mary Anne sucked in a large swallow of soda through her straw. "Me too."

"Yeah, you look pretty tired," Alan said, glancing up at her before turning his attention to his burger, apparently unconcerned about how Mary Anne would react to such blunt observations.

Mary Anne took a moment to study him as he lifted his burger into his hands. _He looks tired, too_, she decided, though she refrained from mentioning it aloud. She decided it was the same sort of exhaustion that was on her face. It wasn't the slightly pale and withdrawn look that came from tossing and turning against bedsheets on a hot night. Alan had the same bruised, nervous look of someone hiding something. The same look Mary Anne had when she wasn't making concerted efforts to hide it.

It was a look of fear and worry, and she suddenly felt as though she'd found an ally of sorts.

"Want a fry?" Alan asked, pushing his plate towards her.

She took one with a small smile. "How's your summer, anyway?" she asked.

Alan shrugged and took another large gulp from his glass of soda. "Okay. How's yours?"

Mary Anne nibbled the end of the fry he'd given her. "Okay."

He glanced up at her before he looked away again. "You seen Kristy, or anyone from school?"

Mary Anne shifted uncomfortably and twirled the ice cubes in her soda with the end of her straw. "Not for a while," she answered carefully. "I've been busy."

"Oh, right," Alan nodded. "You work at the library, yeah?"

Mary Anne gave him a smile. "Yeah."

"So do you see Claudia a lot then? Her mom works there."

"I think Claud's busy working on her art," Mary Anne said, and in an effort to escape from one uncomfortable subject, she chose another that was just as painful. "She's still submitting stuff to colleges. Some of them don't make their decisions until really late."

Alan rolled his eyes. "College is stupid. I don't even want to go."

Mary Anne suddenly felt another tiny spark of alliance. "You don't?" she asked. She unconsciously edged a little closer, leaning forward over the table. "Why not?"

"I've finished school," Alan said dismissively. "And I'm not dumb enough to think college is all beer and girls and partying. I don't want another four years of papers and deadlines."

Mary Anne smiled. "Right. So, what would you do? Get a job somewhere?"

Alan shrugged and wiped his fingers across the front of his t-shirt, leaving grease-prints. "Dunno," he said. "I don't want to bus tables for the rest of my life, but college isn't for me." He took another slurp of soda. "Want a slice of pizza?"

"No, but you go ahead," Mary Anne answered. "So have _you_ seen anyone from school?"

He shrugged again and raised his hand for the waitress. "Nah, not really. Everyone else seems kind of excited about college. If I hear Pete Black talk about his GPA one more time, I'm gonna lay him flat."

Mary Anne's initial reaction was to laugh, though she wasn't sure if Alan was being serious or not.

"So, I dunno. It's not as much fun hanging out with them anymore," Alan said, and Mary Anne thought he sounded rather defensive. "College is all they want to talk about." He leaned back in his seat, his hand still in the air for the waitress. "Let's talk about somethin' else," he said. "You go on vacation this summer?"

Mary Anne shook her head. "No, but I think my step-mom wants to go to California to visit Dawn, before college starts."

"Oh, right," Alan said. "How's Dawn? Still anti-hamburger?"

"Still anti-hamburger," Mary Anne answered, smiling. "She's good, though. She's going to study at Berkeley. Something about renewable energy and science... I don't think I really understand what she'll be doing."

"We're talking about college again," Alan reminded her, before he turned his attention to the waitress and ordered a pepperoni pizza.

"You can eat what I can't finish," he said to Mary Anne. "What about Logan? You see him?"  
Mary Anne shook her head. "Not really. We're both too busy."

"Everyone is too damn busy," Alan muttered, rattling the ice cubes in his glass. "How anyone will cope with college is a mystery."

Mary Anne pulled her hair free again and started to weave it into a braid, the movements coming to her as naturally as breathing did. "Do you have any plans for the rest of the summer?" she asked.

"No," Alan answered, watching her separate her hair and pull it together again. She could see the shadows under his eyes. She watched the way his fingers drummed against the tabletop.

"Alan," Mary Anne said, cautiously and nervously, "is everything okay?"

He looked up at her for a moment and opened his mouth, his eyes flitting over her face. She could feel every tired imperfection there – her face felt drawn and lined with exhaustion and she was suddenly certain the he was about to turn her own question against her and ask her the same thing.

Panic gripped her.

Alan closed his mouth again and pulled his diluted soda towards him. "Fine," he answered, looking at her over the top of his glass.

She nodded, sorry she had asked, and relieved he hadn't.

* * *

Mary Anne pushed her bedroom window open, silently pleading for a cool evening breeze. The air was still sticky and warm, and the drone of cicadas sounded endlessly across the yards on Burnt Hill Road.

She sank onto the edge of her bed, looking around to see if Tigger would be sleeping at her feet. He was nowhere in sight. He was probably asleep under a chair downstairs, somewhere where cool air swept in under a door.

Mary Anne changed quietly into her pyjamas, listening to the cicadas and the occasional vehicle passing down the street outside. She placed her clothes in her laundry hamper before she sat back on the edge of her bed, put her hands against her face, and allowed herself to break.

Sometimes she thought that if she didn't cry, she'd fall apart completely and not have the strength to get out of bed the next morning. Sometimes, the few minutes she set aside to weep and fall apart was the best part of her day, if only for the momentary peace it eventually provided.

She wiped her eyes and drew in a silent, shuddering breath. She caught sight of herself in the mirror of the dresser, her skin blotchy and red, her hair sticking to her tear-streaked cheeks. She sniffed and reached for a tissue, pulling in another, steadier breath.

Occasionally, when her eyes were sore and tired from her tears, she would glimpse smoke in the corner of the room. She would always turn in terror, convinced that somehow something had gone wrong – the wiring, or the heat of the summer, would somehow spontaneously turn to flames inside the walls.

There was never anything there, and Mary Anne often thought that somehow that was _worse_. Sometimes she thought she was genuinely going crazy. She wondered if she was developing some sort of symptom or sickness that kept her so afraid and nervous all the time.

She looked back at her reflection in the mirror, and was met with the overwhelmingly depressing thought that this was just who she was. This was Mary Anne, and this was the way Mary Anne would always be.

* * *

Mary Anne was a great believer in fate. So when she saw Alan Gray for the second time in two days – this time trying to skip stones across the extraordinarily shallow brook – she walked over to him.

"Hey," Alan greeted her, his attention still mostly caught up with the flat stone in his palm.

"Hi," Mary Anne answered.

"Sleep better last night?" Alan asked, spinning a stone at the water. It hit a pool and skipped twice before it clattered against the rocks across the other side of the stream. The water ran quietly, shallow and rippling in the dappled light.

"Not really," Mary Anne answered, wondering if he was really interested or if he was merely making familiar conversation. "How about you?"

Alan shrugged and searched the ground by his feet for another rock. "Nah. Had a fight with my old man."

"Oh," Mary Anne said. She wasn't sure if she should ask any further questions.

Alan didn't wait for her. "I made it sound like I wasn't going to college, yesterday," he said, glancing up at her. He picked up a stone and turned it in his hand. "But Dad's makin' me go to Stoneybrook U."

Mary Anne's heart leapt, until she began to suspect Alan was making fun of her.

"He is?" she asked suspiciously.

Alan hurled the stone at the water. It hit the pool with a satisfying _thunk_, the current quickly swallowing up any sign of its impact. "I've been tryin' to get out of it," he said. "Short of doing something criminal, I'm runnin' out of ideas."

Mary Anne toed the dirt. "You're really going to Stoneybrook U?"

"Not if I can help it," Alan scoffed. "I told you yesterday, I'll get a job or somethin'."

"Bussing tables?"

"If I have to."

She chewed her lip for a moment. "I'm going to Stoneybrook U."

He looked up at her again, and frowned. "Really?"

She nodded.

"How come?" He seemed genuinely surprised, and perhaps a little concerned.

Mary Anne tried to assume the look of energy and happiness again, though she wasn't so sure it was going to work on Alan. "No real reason," she answered. "It's not a bad place to end up, you know."

"No, but..." He trailed off and shrugged. "I dunno. I figured you'd end up in New York or somewhere."

"You did?" Mary Anne asked in surprise. Suddenly she longed to question him, to ask him what else he had ever predicted for her.

"Did you bomb out in your final exams?" Alan asked in surprise. "Did your GPA plummet to, like, I dunno –"

"No, nothing like that," Mary Anne answered. "I made good grades."

Alan looked at her for a long moment, turning a flat pebble over and over in his hands. "I don't want to go to college," he said after a moment. "I know I said that yesterday, but it's not just because of the work and the papers and stuff. It's because I don't think I'd be any good at it."

Mary Anne suddenly felt as though she were on the edge of something enormous. She could tell, just looking at Alan, that there was something there, something _deeper_, and maybe she'd scratched the surface of it already.

At the same time, however, she wasn't sure she could trust him. She didn't know him very well, after all, and she already felt dangerously exposed when she was around him, like he could see through all of her faked facial expressions; like he knew exactly how she was really feeling.

She had an idea he was feeling something quite similar.

She twisted her fingers into the hem of her t-shirt, nervous and embarrassed. "I'm scared I won't make any new friends," she admitted softly. "I don't want to start over."

"Neither do I," Alan answered, and Mary Anne breathed an inaudible sigh of relief as he matched her fear.

"Everyone else seems excited about college," she said. She didn't add that the thought of college made her sick to her stomach, or that she thought something was wrong with her for dreading it rather than looking forward to it.

"I don't get why it's such a big deal," Alan said moodily, searching for more stones. "There are tons of people who have been successful without going to college."

"What does your dad say?" Mary Anne asked. "Do you think you'll convince him?"

"No way," Alan scoffed. He gave up on skipping stones and sank into the grass at the edge of the brook. "I don't know. He never went to college and he regrets it, so..." He shrugged and looked further upstream, avoiding eye contact.

Mary Anne sat on a rock at the edge of the water, a few feet away from him. "My dad wanted me to go to New York," she said. "I'd always wanted to go to Sarah Lawrence."

Alan grinned at her. "Yikes," he said. "You'd have to go for a scholarship, right?"

Mary Anne pulled her ponytail through her hands. "I was going to," she said. She drew a deep breath and looked down at the dirt, her voice sounding a little faster and a little too high-pitched to be natural. "I freaked out," she confessed desperately. "There were interviews and written application letters, and I completely messed up. I couldn't go in... I..." She broke off, her fingers tightening around her hair, her breath sharp and hot in her lungs and against the back of her throat. "All of a sudden I realised how far away it was going to be and how alone I would be, and I've _never_ been alone..."

She closed her eyes and shook her head as though to rid herself of the memory. "I bailed on my interview," she said. "I was too afraid to go in. And then they called and they asked why I wasn't there and..." She bit her lip. "It was awful. I told my dad that I wanted to stay in Stoneybrook and I know he didn't want me to see he was disappointed, but he _was_. And now he's worried about me but we're not really talking about it, we're just tiptoeing around one another because he's scared I'm going to panic again..." She trailed off, realising she had been rattling on and barely drawing a breath.

Alan's eyes were wide. He pulled a fistful of grass out of the ground and scrunched it in his fingers. "Yeah," he said, and he cleared his throat and looked away. "I know how you feel."

Mary Anne wasn't sure he did know, but she was relieved he hadn't made excuses to get out of there after she'd spilled everything like that. She was even more relieved he hadn't laughed.

"He says I could still go, if I wanted," Mary Anne said, examining her hair for split ends as though her life depended on it. "I don't want to keep telling him I can't. I feel guilty every time he tries to give me what I thought I wanted."

"Isn't Sarah Lawrence like a really expensive school?" Alan asked, propping himself up on his elbows and staring at her. "Is your dad loaded?"

Mary Anne frowned at him, but he grinned, not in the least bit shamed.

She shifted on the rock. "He's a lawyer," she said, "and for thirteen years it was just the two of us. My college fund is..." She turned her attention back to her hair. "It's okay."

Alan laughed. "Damn," he said. "See, my dad didn't go to college but he did all right for himself because he married into my mom's rich family. Maybe I should marry a rich girl. You can be my sugar momma, Mary Anne."

The sound of her own laughter surprised her, and the smile lingered on her face once she had stopped.

Alan grinned again and flopped back into the grass, staring up at the sky through the treetops. "At least your dad sounds like he's tryin' to understand," he said. "My dad just gets pissed off."

"He only wants what's best for you," Mary Anne said, hoping she was right.

"No he doesn't," Alan scoffed. "Look, I get that college might make things easier. I get that it'll probably give me opportunities I won't get elsewhere. But I don't _want_ to go." He curled his fists into the grass again.

"Maybe you should come up with an alternative plan," Mary Anne said. "Not just one that says, 'maybe I'll get a job,' but, you know, one that actually tells your dad you're trying to take the right steps for a good future."

Alan lifted his head and frowned at her. "How do I do that?"

Mary Anne rolled her eyes. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe an internship, or something like that?"

"Hey, yeah," Alan said, his face brightening at the thought. "I think they usually happen at the beginning of the summer, though. I've probably missed out."

"You should still ask around," Mary Anne said. "Not all companies are the same. You could still find something."

Alan nodded and breathed a sigh. "This is the worst summer ever," he said. "Not only are we slowly frying, but we've got doom ahead of us."

Mary Anne laughed again. "Doom?"

"College, employment, whatever," he said. "It's all part of the corporate machine."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

"No, but I like the way it sounds. Evil."

Mary Anne lifted her hair away from the back of her neck. "I'm hot," she complained. "Want to come to my house for a drink?"

"Okay," Alan answered, looking relieved that she had asked. "But I'm not drinking anything sugar-free."

* * *

The house was dim and quiet when Mary Anne showed Alan into the kitchen. "Sharon should be here somewhere," she said, automatically pulling the plug to the coffee machine from the wall on her way to the fridge. "We made lemonade yesterday. Want some?"

"Sure." Alan glanced around the kitchen. "You've got a nice house."

Mary Anne nodded rather tiredly. She poured two tall glasses of lemonade and put the pitcher back in the fridge, pausing for a moment after she'd closed the door again. The rhythm of the fridge's humming had changed a little.

_It's just because I opened the door. It's not a big deal._

She clenched her fingers and turned back to the counter, where Alan had seated himself on one of the stools. "Our other house burned down," she said, pushing Alan's glass of lemonade toward him.

"Yeah, I remember the fire," Alan said, his gaze landing briefly on Mary Anne.

She nodded. She could remember the kids from school finding any excuse to ride their bikes past. A few of them had crept towards the wreckage, kicking clumps of charcoal and ash that had once been her family's belongings.

"You know what's really weird?" Mary Anne asked after a moment, making an attempt to smile. "Sometimes I get up in the night for a glass of water, or to go to the bathroom, and I get all turned around and forget where I am. When my dad and I moved into Sharon's house from our place on Bradford Court, that only lasted a couple of weeks. I've been in this house for four years and it still feels strange." She looked down and traced her finger through the gathering condensation on the outside of her glass.

"I've never moved house," Alan said. "You know, one of the few benefits of going to college would be moving away."

"I don't think so," Mary Anne answered, pulling her ponytail free. "I don't want to move away."

"I do." Alan took a long swallow of his lemonade. "You play with your hair a lot."

Mary Anne dropped her hands self-consciously. Alan grinned.

She wasn't sure whether or not to like him. He seemed to talk a lot without thinking it through first, and she wasn't comfortable enough with him to not care about it. She tried to imagine how she'd feel if Kristy had commented on her nervous habits.

She decided to ignore it. "Where would you move to?" she asked, cupping her hands around her glass.

"California," Alan said. "Like, as far away as I could go."

"Why?" Mary Anne asked. She felt a wave of secondary panic, like she was anxious for Alan regarding a move that hadn't even been made.

Alan shrugged. "Dunno."

Mary Anne knew he did know, but she wasn't pushy enough to press further. She guessed it had something to do with his father.

"Of course, if Dawn is anything to go by, California is full of tofu," Alan said, wrinkling his nose.  
Mary Anne laughed. "I think you'd survive."

"Will you go with your step-mom to visit her?"

Mary Anne shook her head. "Not this time."

"So you're just gonna hang out and wait for college to start, then?"

Mary Anne twirled the ends of her hair around her finger. "Guess so."

"Do you see Kristy or Claudia or anyone much anymore?"

Mary Anne glanced at him and then took a sip of lemonade. "Not really."

"How come?" Alan's stare was more direct, now.

Mary Anne frowned at him. "I just don't, that's all. They're busy. I'm busy."

"Claudia's not that busy," Alan said.

Mary Anne suddenly felt trapped. "I thought you guys didn't talk much anymore."

He shrugged. "We don't, really. Just now and then."

"Does she talk about me?" Mary Anne felt her eyes narrowing. She suddenly felt angry and betrayed, though she wasn't sure who she should be directing those emotions toward.

"A little bit," Alan said. "Not much. It's just that the other day you said she was still working on stuff for college, but I knew she'd finished all that. She got into Lyme."

"Oh," Mary Anne said. She twirled her hair around her finger again. "Well, we don't talk much, so..."

"Yeah, it happens," Alan said, shrugging. He drained his glass. "I don't talk to many people from school either. It's only been a few weeks and all of a sudden it's like everyone I was friends with is on a different planet."

"I know!" Mary Anne blurted, her eyes wide. "Everything has changed." She watched Alan wipe his lip on his arm, leaving a wet smear of lemonade on his skin.

"It's almost embarrassing to admit I'm going to Stoneybrook U," he muttered. "Especially when it's my dad makin' me go."

"I know," Mary Anne agreed, feeling another spark of alliance and understanding skip between them. "It's like I've failed, somehow."

"Exactly," Alan lamented, staring down at his empty glass. "I mean, I was never that great at school. So really, it's like all I've done is confirmed I'll amount to nothing."

Mary Anne opened her mouth to defend him, but the fridge clicked and the humming went up to a higher pitch. She jumped and turned to it, watching it with wide eyes, expecting smoke to start pouring out the back of it at any minute.

"What's wrong?" Alan asked.

"The fridge," Mary Anne said, her voice tense. "Does it sound weird to you?"

"No," Alan said, frowning. "Fridges make weird noises all the time." He laughed. "Oh man, one time the fridge that's out in our garage – the one my dad keeps his beer in – it just randomly started making a noise like a jet engine. The fan at the back was fucked. Dad thought someone was trying to steal his car." He laughed again.

Mary Anne offered him a weak smile in return. Her palms felt sweaty and her heart was racing. She kept her ears tuned toward the fridge, desperately trying to pick up any other variations in the quiet humming it offered. Anxiety roiled in her stomach. Suddenly she just wanted to be alone.

"Maybe you should go," she said, trying to make it sound like an open-ended suggestion, rather than a real request. "I thought Sharon was home, but it doesn't look like she is. If Dad comes back and sees us here alone, he'll be upset."

Alan shrugged and got to his feet. "Whatever," he said. "Thanks for the drink."

"Sure." Mary Anne followed him to the door. "Good luck looking for internships."

"Oh, yeah, I'd forgotten about that," he mused. He ran his hand through his hair and looked back at her, his eyes slightly narrowed, like he was examining her. "Hope you get some sleep tonight," he said eventually. "You're pretty twitchy, Mary Anne."

The look on her face made him laugh. He jumped down the porch steps and waved to her over his shoulder.  
Mary Anne shut the door and went to the fridge, anxiously listening to see if there was anything wrong with it.

* * *

Mary Anne stood on the other side of the door to the kitchen, chewing her lip. Sharon and her father hadn't ever had many serious arguments, but this one sounded like it was building.

"I just don't think it's a good idea," Richard said, and Mary Anne almost winced when she heard the tone of his voice. It was one she rarely argued against.

"Dawn's leaving for college in a few weeks," Sharon said, sounding uncharacteristically annoyed. "I want to see her before she leaves. I want to make sure she's going to be all right."

"Well, what about Mary Anne?" Richard asked. "She's barely said a word since that fiasco at Sarah Lawrence."

"It wasn't a fiasco," Sharon said, clattering a dinner plate down on the table. "She'll be fine at Stoneybrook University, Richard."

Mary Anne peered around the edge of the door and watched her father pinch the bridge of his nose.  
"I think there's something else," he said. "She's so _nervous_ all the time. She won't talk to me about it."

"I'll ask her later," Sharon said, dropping ice cubes into a fresh pitcher of lemonade. "Stop worrying so much."

"I just think it would be better if you waited," Richard said. "The less disruption right now, the better."

"It's just the weather, Richard," Sharon said, and this time there was a sharpness to her voice Mary Anne didn't think she'd ever heard before. "Mary Anne's just a little blue, that's all. She'll cheer up once the heat breaks." She placed the pitcher carefully in the middle of the table. "I'm going to California," she said. "I love Mary Anne, Richard, but I want to see Dawn before summer's over. You'll both be fine." She turned her back and started tossing the salad in the bowl on the counter.

Mary Anne backed away and returned quietly upstairs to her bedroom. She couldn't help but feel responsible for the argument.

* * *

While Mary Anne was helping with the dinner dishes, and supervising Sharon in an effort to make sure everything was put back where it was supposed to go, she braced herself for the question she knew was coming.

Sharon dropped a handful of cutlery into the drawer, spoons and forks mixing together in one compartment. "You're very quiet, Mary Anne," she said lightly. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Fine," Mary Anne answered easily. "Just tired. I haven't been getting much sleep – it's been too hot."

"Oh, I know," Sharon said sympathetically. "So long as everything else is all right."

Mary Anne nodded, and Sharon patted her shoulder and headed for the fridge with a stack of clean plates in her hand.

* * *

"Mary Anne?"

Mary Anne cringed and backed up a couple of paces. She'd known upon seeing her father's study door open that he'd wanted to talk to her before she disappeared up to bed. She was starting to get a headache. She wanted to dissolve into tears.

She looked around the door. "Is everything all right?"

"I was going to ask you that," Richard said, turning in his chair to face her. "You're very quiet."

"I'm fine," Mary Anne answered, feeling a little impatient. "Sharon's already asked me if anything is wrong."

"_Is_ anything wrong?" Richard asked, and the look on his face told Mary Anne he was worried.

She felt guilty. For a moment she wondered if she should try to explain everything to him – how terrified she was whenever she thought of college, and how being at home was becoming increasingly scary as well, all because of something which had happened over four years ago.

"No, everything's okay," she said, leaning against the door-jamb. "It's just the heat."

Richard nodded and fidgeted with the pen in his hand. "You're not worried about college, are you?" he asked after a moment.

She hesitated. "Maybe a little bit."

She saw a slight look of relief cross his face, like he'd finally pinned down the problem and understood why she'd been acting the way she had. "You don't need to worry, honey," he said. "You'll settle in soon enough. Don't forget everyone else will be new as well."

Mary Anne traced her finger along the grain of the wood in the door. "I know."

Her father watched her for a long moment. "Your mother didn't like college much, either," he said eventually. "I'm sure she'd be able to give you better advice than I can at the moment."

Mary Anne's heart sank. "You're not bad at giving advice, Dad." She stepped into his study and dropped onto the small sofa by the bookcase. "I don't know why I'm so nervous about it."

"Well, it's a big moment." He looked down at the pen in his hands and rolled it between his fingers. "Sometimes I forget just how grown up you are."

Mary Anne tucked her hair behind her ears. "Why didn't Mom like it?"

"I'm not sure, really," he mused. "She hid in the library a lot of the time, studying and helping the staff there. But she was a long way from home, of course, and often felt homesick."

Mary Anne's heart sank even further, but she kept her voice light. "Well, I won't have to worry about that," she said.

For a moment, Mary Anne thought he was going to mention Sarah Lawrence again, tell her that if she really wanted to go, she could.

But he didn't. He just cleared his throat lightly and nodded. "So long as you're happy, Mary Anne. That's all that really matters."

* * *

"Hey, Mary Anne!"

Mary Anne looked up in alarm as Claudia breezed happily into the library, looking far too put-together and casual, considering the oppressive heat still shimmering down outside.

"Is my mom around?" Claudia asked, leaning on the front desk. Her over-sized t-shirt slid off her shoulder to reveal a hot pink bra strap.

"Um," Mary Anne said, her face already red from Claudia's sudden arrival. She felt flustered and trapped. "I think she's out back. You can go and look for her if you want."

Claudia lifted herself up onto the desk and sat cross-legged, flipping through a paperback someone had left on the desk. "How are you?" she asked. She glanced up and smiled.

Mary Anne was instantly suspicious, though she wasn't sure why. She hadn't seen Claudia for weeks, and her sudden arrival after Mary Anne's conversation with Alan made her feel self-conscious. "Fine," she answered. "How are you?"

"Hot," Claudia complained. "The air conditioning in my car doesn't work. Even with the windows down, it doesn't make much difference."

"It is hot," Mary Anne agreed sympathetically. She fidgeted with the library date stamp. "I heard you got into Lyme," she said eventually, trying to cut down on the awkward silence she could feel creeping into the air. "Congratulations."

Claudia beamed. "Hey, thanks." She glanced around. "Still not sure Mom and Dad are that pleased about it."

Mary Anne rolled her eyes, finding the familiar direction of conversation rather comforting. "You're not Janine."

"Thank God." Claudia grinned and tossed the paperback down onto the desk again. "I saw Alan the other day. He said you guys went for a soda or something."

"Oh," Mary Anne stammered, "no, it was nothing like that. I mean, I just ran into him..."

Claudia laughed and shook her head, her earrings jangling gently against her neck. "No, it's fine. I mean, I wasn't accusing you of anything. It wouldn't matter anyway, you know?"

Mary Anne nodded and looked down at the stamp again, spinning it with her fingers.

"Seen Kristy? Is she back from camp yet?"

"I haven't seen her," Mary Anne answered, shrugging slightly. She hadn't even known Kristy was away at camp – off being a mentor to another group of kids, or at some sports event? Mary Anne bit her lip and wondered.

Mrs. Kishi appeared with a stack of books in her arms. "Claudia! The desk is not for sitting on."

Claudia slid off the desk obediently. "I've locked myself out of the house," she said, having the grace to look a little shame-faced. "Can I borrow your key?"

Mary Anne busied herself by loading the book cart as Claudia and Mrs. Kishi talked. She began to hope Claudia would leave without suggesting a soda or a slice of pizza or something. The thought of trying to sustain conversation for more than five minutes gave Mary Anne a headache.

"We should catch up sometime," Claudia said, finding Mary Anne between the Science Fiction shelves. "It's been ages."

"Sure," Mary Anne answered easily. "It has been a while."

Claudia tilted her head, her hair long curtaining down over one shoulder. "You okay?" she asked brightly.

"Sure," Mary Anne said again. She gave Claudia the smile she used to convince her father everything was fine. "Just the heat, you know?"

Claudia rolled her eyes. "I know, right? My make-up slides off, like, thirty seconds after I put it on each morning."

"I know," Mary Anne agreed, voicing understanding, but silently wondering why Claudia bothered with make-up in the first place. _Especially_ if it never stayed on...

"Well, see ya," Claudia said, drumming her fingers against a nearby shelf. "I'll call you sometime."

"Okay," Mary Anne answered automatically. "Bye, Claud."

Claudia smiled again, hovering a few seconds after their farewells, as though she were waiting for something else.

Mary Anne breathed a sigh of relief when she had gone, and instantly felt guilty.

She wondered when it had become a chore to have friends, instead of a pleasure. She wondered if there was ever a way to unburden herself of everything when it seemed so likely she would have to do it all alone.

* * *

Mary Anne clung to Sharon a little longer than she meant to. "When will you be back?" she asked, blinking back tears.

"Sunday," Sharon reminded her patiently, squeezing Mary Anne before she pulled back and smiled at her. "You'll be okay, honey."

"I know." Mary Anne wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and looked down at the floor as Sharon pecked Richard's cheek.

She couldn't really help but feel it was her fault Sharon was leaving. The house had such a weight around it lately, and Mary Anne just _knew_ it was her fault.

Sharon beamed at her husband and her step-daughter, waving over her shoulder before she disappeared into the crowd in the direction of her gate.

Richard put his arm around Mary Anne's shoulders, but he didn't say anything. Mary Anne knew he was still angry about Sharon leaving when the mood surrounding them all seemed so oppressive and hopeless. He had tried to convince her again to wait a little longer, but Sharon was too aware of the short time left before Dawn started college.

Mary Anne had heard them arguing again the previous night, and as much as she understood Sharon's desire to see Dawn, she wished her father had won the dispute. Sharon offered an air of vibrancy and casualness that neither Mary Anne nor Richard had a hope of imitating. The house would seem even less like a home without her there.

Mary Anne lifted her chin and sighed, flashing her father another well-practised smile. "Think we can survive without her?" she asked.

Richard smiled back and squeezed Mary Anne close to him for a brief moment. "I think we'll do okay," he said.

* * *

Mary Anne jumped as a book thumped off the shelf and landed at her feet. She looked at the shelf in surprise, wondering what had happened.

Alan Gray's eyes glittered back at her from the other side. "Hey, sugar momma."

"Alan," Mary Anne breathed, sounding only slightly annoyed. She bent to pick up the book he'd nudged to the ground. "What are you doing here?"

"Catching up on my summer reading."

"Right," Mary Anne answered, finding herself smiling. "Come on, I'm working. I can't fool around."

Alan wiggled his eyebrows at her through the gap in the shelf. "I hadn't suggested anything, but if you're trying to hint at something, Mary Anne, I'm up for it."

She felt heat steal to her face, and she started to stammer.

He laughed and came around the end of the bookshelves, leaning against them casually. Sweat darkened his t-shirt again, under the arms and in a triangle pointing down his chest.

"Sleeping any better?" he asked.

She figured he was only asking because their previous conversations had included the subject. She shrugged. "Sure."

He smirked and turned his attention to the books, running his fingers along the spines.

"Thanks for mentioning the intern idea," he blurted suddenly. "I mentioned it to Dad and he's kind of eased off on me. But I figure I'll probably end up going to Stoneybrook U anyway."

Mary Anne felt a wave of relief, and didn't do a very good job of hiding it. "Maybe it'll be okay if we're there together," she said. She cleared her throat in a moment of awkward silence.

"I guess," Alan said eventually, looking at her critically. "At least you're smart. If we're ever in the same class, you'll probably be able to help me out with the answers."

She laughed and shook her head. "I'm not so sure..."

He grinned and shrugged, toying with a tattered paperback. "So," he said eventually, "wanna go for a soda sometime? I mean, if you want..."

"Okay," Mary Anne answered, more from surprise than anything. "I finish here in an hour..." She felt another light blush rise to her cheeks.

Alan gave her a wide grin. "Cool," he said. He breathed a loud sigh and shook his head. "Maybe summer will work out if there's someone I can hang out with," he reasoned. He glanced at her and looked away again. "I mean, if you're okay with it. And I mean, just... You know..."

Mary Anne smiled and shifted a stack of books from the cart into her arms. "Yeah, I know," she answered. "I'll meet you at the Rosebud in an hour, okay?"

* * *

"Are you on drugs?"

Mary Anne choked on her lemonade. She reached for a napkin, her eyes watering. "What?" she wheezed. She spluttered into the napkin. Alan watched her seriously.

"Why would you think I'm on drugs?" Mary Anne asked, offended and confused. "I've never done drugs!"

"You look like you're about two hits away from an overdose," Alan said, reclining against his side of the booth and chewing thoughtfully on his straw. "Or you're sick, or somethin'."

"Alan," Mary Anne said sharply, "you can't just ask someone if they're doing drugs."

"Why not?" he asked. He grinned at her, apparently amused by her anger. "If you're not, what's the difference?"

Mary Anne tucked a lock of her behind her ears, her fingers trembling. They were in a different booth today, further from the exit, and that alone was enough to fray her nerves.

She cleared her throat and shook her head slightly to clear her thoughts. "I'm not on drugs," she said, giving him a fierce look.

"I figured not," he said, looking largely unconcerned. "You'd be the last person to do 'em, right?"

Mary Anne clamped her teeth down on her straw and carefully sucked in another mouthful of lemonade, refusing to answer him. She suddenly wondered why she had agreed to meet him at all – all she could think about now was how annoying he had been in school.

It didn't seem like he'd changed much.

"Sorry," Alan said after a moment. "It's just that you look pretty tired, Mary Anne. I thought it might have been drugs."

"Well, it's not," Mary Anne answered. She tore her napkin into thin, careful shreds.

"So what is it, then?" Alan asked, fixing her with a direct stare.

Mary Anne squirmed slightly. Suddenly Alan was reminding her of Kristy – so blunt and direct... Once Kristy Thomas wanted something, she went after it, and Mary Anne felt Alan was the same. She doubted he'd rest until she gave him a satisfactory answer.

She wondered if it would be so terrible to tell him the truth.

"Hey," Alan said, before Mary Anne could make up her mind, "I really meant that before, you know..." He slurped noisily on his soda, looking nervous. "The thanks, I mean." He shook his head and shrugged at the same time, and Mary Anne felt slightly awed when she saw how flustered he was becoming. It was strange, watching someone else fumble their way through an anxious conversation.

"Dad was kind of..." Alan trailed off into a mumble and stared down at the table. "About college, I mean. We were fightin' a lot, you know?" He glanced up at Mary Anne sheepishly. "The idea about interns and stuff... I mean, even if it don't work out, he seems happier now, like I'm tryin' to make an effort..." He glanced up at her again.

Mary Anne gave him a small smile. "Glad I could help," she said quietly. She was glad. And she realised now that Alan looked less exhausted and less twitchy than he had the first time they'd met in the Rosebud. She was glad her throwaway comment about summer internships had made so much difference.

"You remember when my house burned down?" Mary Anne asked suddenly. Her heart started hammering as she stood on the edge of the truth.

"Uh-huh," Alan answered, leaning forward to catch his straw in his mouth again. "Eighth grade."

"Yeah." Mary Anne decided to ignore the way Alan smirked when she played with her hair. She reached up and started to braid a few strands together, glad to have something to do with her hands. "I'm worried it'll happen again," she admitted softly.

When she said it out loud, it didn't seem so ridiculous.

"Yeah," Alan said, throwing himself back against the booth again. "Especially with everythin' so hot and dry, huh?"

"Yeah," Mary Anne breathed. She kept her eyes on the shredded pile of her napkin. "But I mean... I guess it's not just that. I mean, it is, mostly... But it's also college. And everything that's happened... All that stuff with Sarah Lawrence."

Alan shrugged and made a noise somewhat like a scoff. "Who cares?" he asked. "Jesus, Mary Anne, you don't need to worry. You'll get where you need to be. College don't matter."

She wrinkled her brow. "What do you mean?"

"Didn't you get the highest grades in our class?" Alan asked. He shrugged again. "Who cares which college you go to. You'll figure it out. I don't think college matters that much in the long run."

Mary Anne gave him a small smile. "You don't?"

"Nah." He looked up at her and gave her an easy grin. "You're so smart I don't think the wrong college will hold you back much."

She laughed, suddenly. "Maybe not."

He grinned again. "I'm glad you're goin' to Stoneybrook U, anyway," he said. "Hopefully we'll have a few classes together. That'd be cool."

"Yeah," Mary Anne agreed easily. "It would be."

She swirled her straw around in her lemonade. Alan watched the ice cubes twirl against the glass.

"You really think about fires a lot?" he asked after a moment.

"All the time," Mary Anne admitted. "I know it's stupid."

"Nah," he said. "If my house burned down, I'd probably worry about it too."

Mary Anne bit her lip. "I can't explain it," she said, rather defensively, despite his understanding. "I can't sleep because I'm worried I'll wake up and there will be smoke everywhere..." She ducked her head and blinked rapidly as tears stung her eyes.

She felt guilty, somehow. Like perhaps all of her worry and anxiety was somehow a ploy for attention or sympathy. Because really, she didn't _need_ to worry so much. She knew that. There were smoke alarms all over the house, and the steps Richard had taken to ensure the electricity was safe had caused Sharon at least four serious migraines.

Still. Mary Anne couldn't forget trying to find her way down the stairs in the old farmhouse as smoke billowed low from the ceiling.

She shuddered, and Alan noticed.

"Cold?" he asked, glancing up at the air conditioning vents above them.

She shook her head and reached for her lemonade again.

"How come you and Claudia don't talk much anymore?" Alan asked curiously.

Mary Anne bit her lip and frowned. "I'm not sure, really," she admitted. "We all just grew apart..." She swiped her hand across her eyes, though they were dry. "I get so worried, you know? About fires. And college. I just... at some point it was easier to just keep it all to myself. And Kristy and Claud and everyone – I mean, you know what it's like. Everyone is so busy trying to sort their own lives out. We just... we didn't fight or anything. We just didn't stay friends."

Alan rolled his eyes. "Girls," he muttered.

Mary Anne was quick to shoot back. "You said you wanted to punch Pete Black."

"Yeah," Alan said, raising his hand for the waitress, "but he'd get over it. Want a cheeseburger?"

Mary Anne gave him a small smile. "Okay."

* * *

Mary Anne felt a lurch in her chest as she saw her father standing at the fridge with the door open.  
"What's wrong?" she asked.

He looked up and smiled at her. "There you are," he said. He swung the fridge door closed. "Where have you been?"

"Sorry," Mary Anne answered, cringing. She still felt guilty when she came home late, or didn't tell her father where she would be. "I lost track of time."

The setting sun was sending its rays directly into the living room at the front of the house. Through the open doorway to the kitchen, everything glowed orange.

Richard appeared distracted. He opened the fridge again. "It's fine," he murmured. "I just thought you were with Kristy or somebody."

Mary Anne felt a pang. Suddenly she wished she _had_ been with Kristy. Spending the afternoon chatting with Alan had reminded her how much easier everything became with a friend.

"No," she said slowly, "but Claudia wanted to catch up sometime this week. Could I call her now?"  
"Of course you may," Richard murmured, still gazing into the fridge.

Mary Anne gave him a worried look, wondering if he was inspecting the light inside for faults. She went to the phone, her palms slightly sweaty and her heart racing, and dialled Claudia's number.

She felt a little sick, and very nervous, but her father's assumption that she had been with friends made her want to create the situation for real.

"Hello?"

She cleared her throat. "Hi, Claud. It's Mary Anne."

Claudia didn't hide her surprise. "Oh! Hey! How are you?"

"Very well, thanks," Mary Anne answered, still eyeing her father rather suspiciously. "Um, did you still want to go for a soda sometime?"

There was a beat, but Claudia sounded excited when she spoke. "Of course!" she said. "You have no idea how bored I've been. Nobody is around. Stace is in New York for the summer, and Kristy's off teaching kids baseball or something, I don't know. And it's so hot – and oh God, Mary Anne, this Mars Bar totally melted all over my carpet. Do you know how to get chocolate stains out?"

Mary Anne smiled and nudged at the kitchen counter with her foot as she thought. "I'll try to find out," she answered. "Do you want to meet tomorrow?"

"Sure! I'll come by the library and we'll go to lunch or something."

"Okay." Mary Anne smiled again. "See you then."

She turned to her father once the call had ended, watching him nervously. He swung the fridge door closed and sighed again.

"What's wrong?" Mary Anne asked worriedly. "Is it the light in there? The motor is humming kind of weird, don't you think?"

Richard raised his eyebrows slightly. "I don't know about that," he answered. "But all we have in there is soy milk and tofu. How do you feel about take out?"

Mary Anne blinked, and then laughed. "Oh. Um, great, I guess?" She grinned at him. "Can we order something with meat in it?"

* * *

Mary Anne wiped a trembling hand against her mouth, the sharp taste of bile still on her tongue. Her stomach was tumbling over and over, and her knees wouldn't stop shaking.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom stall and glimpsed herself in the mirror, she winced at the sallow cast of her skin and the deep shadows that had reappeared under her eyes.

Outside, she could hear the excited hum of Stoneybrook University students as they hurried to their first classes.

"I can't do it," Mary Anne whispered, panicked, to her reflection. She shook her head, her face ghostly beneath the hard florescent lighting in the girls' bathroom.

She would have to go home. She would have to go home and explain to her father, and to Sharon, that college just wasn't for her – that she would just have to accept that she would never leave Stoneybrook, would never leave her job at the library or achieve anything.

She pushed miserably back into the crowd, fighting against the current of students pouring across the quad. Just when she thought everything would be okay – just when she'd found a new balance with her friends, and her work... Just when she thought she could do it... It all fell apart again.

Something – someone – caught her arm. "Hey, sugar momma. Where are you off to?"

Mary Anne winced and looked at Alan. He gave her a lazy grin.

"I'm ill," she said. "I have to go home."

He looked her up and down before he dismissed what she'd said. "Pfft."

"I am!" she insisted, annoyed with him, and close to tears because all she wanted to do was escape.

"Come on," he said, tugging at her gently. "You can't bail on me on the first day. You're supposed to call Claudia later, and Kristy, and tell 'em what it was like."

Mary Anne bit her lip. Her heart was slowing a little, gathering itself back into a normal rate.

"You should probably call California Girl, too," Alan said, still gripping her wrist. He started leading her with the crowd, back toward the main building. "And I need you, anyway, 'cos I don't see anyone else I know yet, and I need a wingman to hook me up with cute girls to sit with in class."

"A wingman?" Mary Anne asked in disgust. She followed him, her feet treading heavily.

"Woman," he corrected. "Wing... uh, woman." He grinned over his shoulder at her. "Unless _you_ want to sit with me in class, Mary Anne? You're pretty cute, I guess."

"We've only got two classes together," she said, ignoring him, already exasperated. But she smiled in spite of herself, because once again he'd managed to distract her from what was really worrying her.

"Yeah, well," Alan said, sounding satisfied. "That still means you gotta stay."

Mary Anne felt her stomach clench as they approached the building. "You know," she said nervously, "they never went over fire drills with us or anything."

"We'll sit near the door," Alan promised. He grinned at her again. "Not gonna promise I won't trample you if the need comes to escape, though."

"Charming," Mary Anne answered.

Alan's hand slid from her wrist down to her fingers. He clung to her tightly as he led her through the crowd, his grip firm on her hand.

Mary Anne followed him. He had not, after all, led her astray yet.


	14. Teacher

**Title/Prompt:** Teacher  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG  
**Word count:** 1738  
**Summary:** James Hobart is lacking a playmate. Charlie Thomas has a spare half hour. James decides to pass on the skills of Australian Rules Football.

**Warnings:** One or two instances of swearing.

**Notes: **This started out as an exercise in "I need to write something _Australian._" Mostly just to clear my head of all that slang my Ameri-betas have been picking me up on lately. Anyway, an hour later and I had this, and I figured I may as well use it! Thanks to lj user isabelquinn for encouraging me to treat it as something more than brain sludge, and for picking up on a few errors. Any remaining mistakes are mine only.

Thank you to everyone leaving reviews! I'm so glad you're liking these little stories. I'm sorry if I haven't responded to your personally, but please know I appreciate all the comments you've left! :)

* * *

"Hey Ben, you wanna play footy?" James hefts an old Sherrin football in his hands.

"I can't," Ben says. "Busy."

James scowls. "Come on," he says. "Kick to kick?"

"I can't!" Ben says again. "Bugger off."

James kicks the door-frame before he leaves, and stomps down the stairs. He stops halfway and calls back, hopeful and pleading. "You can be Kouta!" he says. "I'll be Sticks."

"James!" Ben shouts. He throws a pillow at the bedroom door and it slams shut.

James continues his angry stomping down the stairs.

* * *

James sits on the front porch – _the_ _verandah_, he thinks angrily – and twirls the football around in his hands.

He looks up when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Claudia Kishi is walking up the front path of her house.

"Hey!" he shouts, jumping to his feet. "Hey, Claudia! HEY!"

Claudia turns around and smiles at him, calling across the road. "Hi, James!"

"You wanna play footy with me?" James asks, holding the Sherrin up over his head.

Claudia shifts her weight onto her other foot. "Um," she says, "I'm kinda busy right now. Also, I don't think I know how to play Australian football... footy..."

"It's real easy," James promises, standing as close to the street as he dares. "I'll teach ya. You can be a full-forward. They get heaps of goals."

Claudia looks at her watch. "I've got a Baby-sitters Club meeting soon," she says. "And then I have to do my homework. How about next time I baby-sit for you, we'll play football – uh, footy – then?"

James feels his heart sink. "Okay," he says. He wanders back to the porch – verandah – and sits on the front steps.

He picks at the stitching on the top of the football and presses his finger against the orange valve, wondering if pumping the ball up a bit will make it easier to bounce.

Mum opens the front door. "Why don't you play kick to kick with Ben?" she asks.

"I tried," James says, turning around to look up at her. "He's busy."

"Oh," Mum says. She sits beside him and waves to Mary Anne Spier and Dawn Schafer as they disappear into Claudia's house.

"Can you have a game with me?" James asks hopefully.

"After tea," Mum promises. "What do you want for dessert tonight?"

James leans his head against her arm. "Chocolate crackles?" he asks hopefully.

"I'll see what I can do." Mum takes the football and edges to the end of the step. "Ready?" she asks. She makes a handball fist.

"No!" James says sternly. "Not like that. Thumb on the outside, Mum."

"Oh, right," Mum says. "Like this?"

James rolls his eyes. "Nuh-uh." He makes a fist and lays his thumb flat around the side of his fingers. "Make it flat. 'Cos if you hit the ball with your knuckle out, you break your thumb."

"Ohh," Mum says. She handballs the footy gently to James.

"Nobody here knows how to play," James says, turning the football around carefully so he can handball it back just like Dad showed him.

"Well, they play a different version of footy here, remember?" Mum says, catching the ball in her hands. She knocks it back to James and he catches it to his chest.

"I wish I could play on a real team," James says longingly. "Just like in Melbourne. I miss Vic-Kick."

"I know, mate," Mum says gently.

"And cricket."

"Me too."

James sighs heavily and presses hard on the ball. "I need to pump it up," he says.

"The pump's in the shed. In the garage."

"Yeah." James hugs the ball against his knees and leans over to look at the toes of his sneakers. "D'you think Dad will play with me when he gets home?"

"Sure," Mum says. She reaches over and ruffles his hair. "Your brothers will be back soon. I bet Mathew and Johnny will have a game with you."

"Mm," James says. "Okay."

"You wanna help me make the chocolate crackles?" Mum asks.

James thinks for a minute. What he really wants to do is play footy.

A loud bang makes him (and Mum) jump.

Kristy Thomas leaps out of a small, rusted car, her face bright red. "Go!" she shouts to the driver. "And get that fixed, Charlie. It's embarrassing."

The car stalls.

"Whoops," Mum says, laughing. She gets to her feet. "You need any help?" she calls.

Kristy cringes and looks over her shoulder, forcing a smile onto her face. "No thanks, Mrs. Hobart. It's just the Junk Bucket..."

The car whines as Charlie tries to start it again.

Kristy makes a rapid retreat into the Kishi house.

Mum leans back down to James. "Why don't you go and see if Charlie needs any help?"

James is shy. He doesn't know Charlie very well. Also, Charlie is big, and in high school, and that makes him kind of scary.

"Go on," Mum prompts. "Take your footy. Maybe if you help him fix his car, he'll play kick to kick with you."

The temptation is too great to resist. With his mother watching as he crosses the street, James holds the Sherrin under his arm and stands near the front of Charlie's car.

"Hey," Charlie says, grinning. "You're Mathew, right?"

"James," James says. He clears his throat, trying to sound brave. "Do you need help?"

Charlie laughs and gets out of the car. "Ah," he says, shaking his head, "I think she'll start again in a minute. She just needs a rest."

"Oh." James looks at the car worriedly. He looks down at the footpath and mumbles to Charlie. "You wanna play footy while you wait for Kristy?"

Charlie looks up at the Kishi house. "Sure," he says. "I dunno how to kick that thing, though. I mean, you do kick it, right? You guys don't throw it or anything, do you?"

"That's against the rules," James says, warming to Charlie. "The ump will pull you up for that."

"The ump?"

"The _umpire_, jeez," James says.

"Oh, right. So you gonna teach me, then?"

"Yeah. Come over to our yard." James leads Charlie back across the street. "Stand there," he says, pointing at the fence. "I'll stand over here. We'll just play kick to kick."

"Sure," Charlie says.

James kicks the ball right to Charlie's chest, and Charlie marks it easily. "Awesome," James breathes, pleased with his kick.

Charlie grins and turns the ball in his hands. "So now I just kick it back to you?"

"Yeah."

Charlie boots the ball and it spins sideways off his foot and slams into the front of the house.

"Shit," Charlie says, clutching his hair. He glances nervously at James, and then laughs. "Oops."

James fetches the ball and returns to his place. "You gotta hold it like this," he says, demonstrating exactly the way Dad showed him. He kicks it again, a perfect torpedo.

"Awesome!" he crows again, just as Charlie marks it.

"So who's your team?" Charlie asks. He kicks the ball carefully. It goes straight, but hits the ground before it reaches James, and bounces in a crooked line toward the fence.

"The Blues," James says, fetching the ball. "We're gonna win the grand final."

"Oh yeah? Cool."

"Yeah." James looks down at the ball and frowns. "I wish we could go," he says longingly.

Charlie has to jump to mark his next kick. James grins proudly.

"You must miss a lot of stuff about home, huh?" Charlie asks. His next kick goes wild again, and he clucks his tongue. "Sorry," he says.

James fetches the ball from the back of the garden bed, breaking stems and branches as he reaches through the shrubs. "Yeah," he says, answering Charlie's question once he's back in his place. "I miss footy and cricket the most."

"I don't understand cricket, either," Charlie says.

James kicks the ball right to him.

"You're good at this," Charlie says, turning the Sherrin around in his hands.

"It's just practice," James says, shrugging. Inside, he glows at the praise. "I can teach you how to play cricket, too," he says. "Ben is better at it than me, but. He can bowl real good."

"You play with the Krushers, right?" Charlie asks. He punts a perfect arc with the ball, and James marks it right against his chest.

"Nope," says James. "I suck at baseball."

"Maybe I can show you how to play sometime," Charlie says, marking James' next kick perfectly.

James considers this for a minute. "I guess," he said. "I'm no good at bowling though. Pitching, I mean."

"Well, I'm not bad at it." Charlie kicks the ball back into the garden bed.

"You're rubbish at footy, though," James says.

Charlie runs at him, and James shrieks and laughs, crawling in under the shrubs against the fence. "You can't tackle me if I don't have the ball!" he cries.

Charlie's face peers at him through the leaves. "Are you making that rule up?" he asks, grinning.

"No!" James says. He pushes the ball out onto the lawn. "You can have another kick," he says.

Charlie laughs and scoops the ball up into his hands. "All right," he says. "But I'm gonna need you to show me again, I think."

James crawls out of the garden bed, dirt on his hands and knees and twigs in his hair. "No worries," he says. "How much longer does your car need to rest?"

Charlie looks across the street at his car, and then checks his watch. "Twenty minutes, I think," he says.

"Cool," James says. He holds his hands out for the ball. "That should be long enough." 


	15. Snow

**Title/Prompt:** Snow  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 3236  
**Summary:** Dee and John Pike are stuck in New York City as a blizzard closes in on Stoneybrook.

**Notes: **This is set during _Snowbound_, which I randomly read the other night. It gave me Dee/John plot bunnies. Most of the dialogue between Dee and Mal in this is canon. Same with Dee and Mary Anne.  
Thank you to my two lovely betas, isabelquinn and luxken27 (both on LJ) for helping me out. Any remaining errors are mine and mine alone.

* * *

John pulls his glove off and dials home with his thumb. Dee grips the receiver and holds it tight to her ear, her heart beating loudly and her jaw set.

"Relax," John says, touching the end of her nose with his bare finger. "It'll be fine."

Claire answers the phone. "_Pikes_!" she shouts excitedly.

"Claire, honey," Dee pleads, "remember how I taught you to answer the phone?"

"Hi, Mommy!" Claire squeals, barrelling on before Dee can offer instructions. "It's _snowing_!"

Dee listens helplessly as Claire explains her experiences with Kindergarten, sloppy joes, and the Abominable Snowman.

"There's no such thing as the Abominable Snowman," Dee says sternly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees John grin. He turns away, trying to fight a more serious look back onto his face.

"Honey," Dee says, interrupting another question that Claire starts to ask, "could you put Mallory on for me, please?"

"Yup," Claire says. There's a rustle on the line, and then Claire's voice, bossy and knowing: "Mommy wants to talk to you."

Mallory is almost too serious as Dee explains the situation.

"Mm-hm," she keeps saying. "Mm-hm."

"Really, there's no need to worry," Dee says, hoping she sounds much calmer than she feels. "Your dad and I will be back as soon as we can catch a train tomorrow."

John squeezes her hand.

A loud whisper comes through the phone over Mallory's next _Mm-hm_. "What's Mom saying?"

"Don't forget," Dee reasons, "you wouldn't have seen us tonight anyway. The train gets in way too late. You'll just have to organise things for a couple of hours in the morning..."

"Mm-hm," Mallory says again.

Dee looks up at John helplessly. "Maybe I should explain this to Mary Anne as well," she says, hoping Mary Anne will ease Mallory's tension a little.

"Mm-hm," Mallory says. "Okay, hang on a sec." There's another rustle on the phone, and Dee hears Mallory's far-off voice. "Mary Anne, she wants to talk to you."

Her heart can't help but sink at the lack of a proper goodbye.

"Hi, Mrs. Pike." Mary Anne sounds more relaxed than Mallory does.

Dee chalks it up to Mallory being a little melodramatic, rather than truly anxious. She feels herself starting to relax. "Hi, Mary Anne," she says.

John drops another coin into the phone.

"Listen, it's snowing in New York, too, and the trains have stopped running. We're not going to be able to get home tonight."

Mary Anne's voice drops to a worried whisper. "Wow," she says. "Um, okay."

Dee hears her draw a breath.

"Well," she continues, "we'll be all right."

As Mary Anne's confidence grows, so does Dee's apprehension. "This is a big responsibility," she warns.

John catches her eye, and she can see his thoughts written all over his face: _Don't freak 'em out, Dee._

Mary Anne remains perfectly level-headed. "I know," she replies. "But like I said, my dad's at home. And Mrs. Barrett. And Mrs. McGill."

Dee breaths a silent sigh of relief. "Right," she agrees. She's suddenly overwhelmed with memories of trips to Sea City, Mary Anne calmly leading the Pikes through arguments and various vacation activities that lead to what John calls hyper-excitement.

"Listen," she continues, her voice calming, "will you tell Mallory and the others we'll see them tomorrow? Oh, and we're staying with the Sombergs. We gave you their number before we left. Call if you need to. Otherwise we'll talk to you in the morning. I'll phone you when we know what our plans are."

"Okay," Mary Anne agrees.

Dee bites her lip, not wanting to cling to the phone in case it causes a feeling of anxiety at the other end, but suddenly too anxious herself to hang up. "Well," she says. "We'll see you tomorrow."

"Sure," Mary Anne answers. "Bye, Mrs. Pike."

The connection goes dead, and Dee hangs the receiver back on the hook. She gazes up at John miserably. "They're all alone," she says.

"They'll survive," he promises. "It's only for a few hours longer than we planned, Dee-Dee."

* * *

Dee's mood has lightened considerably by the time she and John make it back to the Sombergs' building. Her feet are wet, her hair is wet and her nose is running, but she's smiling and her cheeks are rosy with the cold.

The fingers of her right hand are freezing, because she took her glove off to clasp John's hand as they hurried through the falling snow. They're both clutching plastic bags stuffed with cheap nightclothes and toiletries.

"We should've stayed with the Wileys," John whispers in the elevator on the way up. "Don't you think Eric Somberg gives off kind of a cannibalistic feel?"

"John!" Dee nudges him. "Behave yourself."

"If this snow keeps falling, we could be in real trouble," he mutters into her ear.

* * *

Dee likes the Sombergs, but years of geographical distance between them has left her feeling awkward and strange about staying overnight with them. She and John turn in early.

The room they've been offered has two separate, narrow beds against opposite walls.

John sits on the one closest to the window. "I call first bedsies."

"There's no such thing as first bedsies." Dee throws her new, oversized pyjamas at him.

John bounces lightly on the mattress. "Do you think we'll be grounded if we push the beds together?"

"Shh," Dee whispers sternly. She grins at him and snatches a toothbrush out of the plastic bag on the floor. "Since you called first bedsies, I get to use the blue toothbrush."

John growls and makes to leap at her. She squeezes back into the corridor, smothering giggles behind her hand, and closes the bathroom door with a click.

Three seconds later, John follows her in and jockeys for position at the bathroom sink. He picks her up, wrapping his arms around her waist and setting her aside.

They brush their teeth side-by-side, mock glaring at each other in the tiny mirror.

John nudges her out of the way to spit into the drain, and Dee rolls her eyes at him.

"You're crazy," John says. "Look at you, you're foaming at the mouth."

Dee bends over the sink and laughs, toothpaste spilling over her chin.

* * *

Back in the bedroom, they change quickly in the cold air. Snow is still falling outside the window. Dee can see it through the gap in the curtains.

She ignores the second bed and crawls in beside John, squirming down beside him, her hands and feet lost in the pyjamas three sizes too big.

She rests her head against his chest and stares at the falling snow. "Do you think they're okay?" she asks after a moment.

John trails his fingers through her hair. "They're fine, honey."

"There's not much food in the house."

"We'll be back in time to save Nicky from being thrown into the crock-pot," John answers.

She smiles, but she still feels the weight of worry. "What if we can't get back tomorrow? What if it doesn't stop snowing?"

"We'll call Maureen and ask her to keep an eye on things."

Dee relaxes slightly. "I guess. Okay."

John kisses the top of her head and wraps his arms around her. "It'll be all right," he says.

She closes her eyes. John's pyjamas smell new and strange. "You're supposed to go to work at lunchtime tomorrow."

"I know," he answers. "I'll call them in the morning. I guess depending on what time we get back, I'll still have to go in." He rubs his thumb along the back of her neck.

"It's so quiet here," Dee mutters. She's accustomed to murmuring voices and bickering and hushed whispers at bedtime. Here she can't hear anything. The snow has hushed everything outside, and inside, everything is silent.

John opens his mouth, but Dee interrupts him.

"Don't you dare make a joke about heavy breathing and moaning," she warns.

He grins against her hair. "What do you take me for?"

She slips her hand between the buttons on his shirt and pinches him lightly. "I know exactly what you are."

* * *

Dee can't sleep, and John is more restless than usual. She can't see his face, but she knows he's awake.

"Do you think they're sleeping?" she whispers.

"No," John answers. He shifts beside her and hugs her again. "But they're fine, Dee. They'll be okay. Mal and Mary Anne know what to do. I'll bet Stacey McGill has gone over to camp out with them and eat all the junk food in the house."

"She's diabetic, she can't eat junk."

"Well, she's probably with Mal and Mary Anne anyway, watching as the triplets devour that tub of frosting."

Dee grins. "How do you know there's a tub of frosting?"

"I always know when there's frosting."

She yawns and slides her leg over his hip. "How early do you think the trains will start running tomorrow?"

"Not until mid-morning, I guess," John answers. He yawns against the top of Dee's head, his breath warm in her hair. "We'll go back to the station first thing, okay?"

"Okay." She closes her eyes and wills sleep to come.

She worries that Mallory has forgotten to lock the front door. She worries that Claire took all the Abominable Snowman talk seriously. She worries that the triplets are tormenting Nicky with the bizzer sign.

The snow keeps falling past outside, and the street is dead silent beneath it.

* * *

Dee wakes whenever John stirs beside her, which is often.

"Are you asleep?" he whispers.

"No."

The air is freezing, and light shows through the curtains, though it's not from the sun or the moon. It's eerie light from the street and the buildings, and everything looks grey and pink. A few small flakes of snow are still drifting down.

John curls his knees up, bumping against Dee. The bed creaks as he shifts. "I'm longer than this bed," he complains. "My feet keep finding the end of the blanket."

Dee closes her eyes again. "I wish I'd gone to the store before we left."

"Oh, Dee." John presses a kiss against her jaw. "They'll be all right. They won't starve."

"What if we can't get back tomorrow?" she asks worriedly. "What if we're stuck here for another night?"

"If we're stuck here for another night, we're finding a hotel," John mutters, kicking at the blankets again. "It's freezing in here." He grins and nuzzles her neck. "Give me a little body heat."

Dee tuts. "You're impossible."

John lifts his head and turns to look out the window. "What time do you think it is?"

"I don't know." She feels exhausted, but she's not suffering from the cold. John is between her and the frigid air seeping through the window, and her enormous pyjamas cover her hands and feet. John's arm is still under her shoulders and he's warm and close against her.

It's quiet, and they're alone, and under any other circumstance she'd be overjoyed with having some time like this with him. But worry eats at the corners of her mind and she can't stop thinking about what could go wrong back in Stoneybrook.

"Hey," John murmurs tiredly in her ear, "remember when Mal first joined the Baby-sitters Club?"

Dee smiles. "She was so excited."

"They put her through all those exams, remember?"

"And then she and Jessi tried to start their own club." Dee chews on the end of her thumb. "Jessi's probably at the house too, isn't she?"

"The whole club is probably there," John mutters. He grins against Dee's cheek. "We'll go back tomorrow and have to deal with the debris from a giant sleepover."

Dee relaxes a little. "You're probably right," she says. "Between them all, I guess it'll be okay."

John reaches over her to the bedside table, and tilts his watch toward the light from the window. "It's early," he groans. He burrows under the blankets, causing the bed to creak and groan.

"Shh," Dee scolds him. She kisses him. "Go to sleep."

"You go to sleep," he says, and it's in the same tone of voice the triplets use when they're being deliberately argumentative.

"I'm tired," she breathes, complaining and despairing at the same time. "I can't turn my mind off."

"Neither can I," John admits.

Dee slides her arms around him, keeping her eyes closed. "What are you worried about?"

"The kids."

"Me too."

"The house."

"Uh-huh."

"The train. The car. The roads."

"Yeah."

"Eric serving pieces of me on a plate with soft-boiled eggs in the morning."

Dee snorts, but bites the noise back quickly. "Don't be ridiculous," she says. "You'd go better with scrambled."

John rolls over her, burying his face in the pillow and cupping his palm over Dee's mouth to smother the laughter they can't seem to stop.

* * *

Claire is out of breath when she answers the phone, and this time she doesn't bother with any sort of greeting at all. "The phone's working!" she shrieks.

Dee holds the receiver away from her ear for a moment. "Claire!" she pleads. "Remember, honey? When you answer the phone –"  
"Mommy!" Claire shouts. "Hi!"

Dee can hear a far off, "_Claire_!" from Margo. _"I wanted to answer_!"

"Guess what?" Claire asks. "We had ice cream."

"Oh, yum," Dee says, smiling. "Is Mallory there, honey?"

"Uh-huh." The phone is dropped onto the kitchen counter with a clunk, and Claire's voice fades away. "Mallory-Mallory-bo-ballory, banana-fana-fo-fallory..."

Dee glances over to John, who is sitting beside Eric at the kitchen table. Eric is absorbed in his newspaper.

John catches Dee's eye and then tilts his head towards Eric's bowl of oatmeal, raising his eyebrows.

Dee turns away before he can see her smiling.

"Hello?"

"Hi, honey," she says, relief overwhelming as she hears Mallory's voice. "How are you? Is everything okay?"

"Mm-hm," Mallory says.

Dee holds a hand to her forehead, immediately feeling her panic levels rise. "We're coming home as soon as we can."

"No, really, Mom," Mallory says. "Everything is fine. Mr. Spier came by last night to make sure we were all right after the phone lines went down."

"Oh, he did?" Dee asks, making a mental note to find a moment to thank Richard Spier. "And you found enough food for breakfast?"

"Logan came over on skis with a huge package of stuff," Mallory answers.

Dee makes another mental note to replace the groceries the Pike children ate out of the Bruno pantry.

"We're fine," Mallory promises. "Just kind of hungry. And tired, I guess."

Dee nods. "All right, well... We're not sure what time the trains are going to be running. We're going to have some breakfast and then head to the station to find out what's going on. If we're going to be any later than lunch time, I'll give you another call, all right?"

"Sure, Mom," Mallory answers. "We're fine though. Really. It was no big deal."

Dee smiles at Mallory's efforts to sound cool and grounded after what was probably a restless night. "That's great, honey," she says. "I knew I could trust you. Say thank you to Mary Anne for me. Tell her we're going to pay her for the extra hours she has to put in today. We'll see you later, all right?"

"Okay," Mallory answers. "See you later, Mom."

* * *

The train is packed tight. Dee's against the wall, John's body squashed against her. She feels dead on her feet. She can see her reflection in the train window. Her face is drawn and pale, bags highlighted under her eyes.

John looks pale as well. His hand is wrapped around Dee's.

"We should go to the store before we go home," Dee says suddenly. "If we show up without any food, the triplets will be serving you up for lunch."

"I can take them," John answers. "It was Eric I was worried about."

Dee rolls her eyes at her husband's ability to carry such a pathetic joke over two days.

"Are you sure you don't want to go home and check on everything first?" John asks.

"I do," Dee says, twisting in the narrow space she's been crammed into. "But Mallory assured me they had everything under control. Besides, I don't want to get home and then have to go out again later."

"You want your husband to do all the heavy lifting, don't you?" John asks, feigning annoyance. "Lifting all those grocery bags can put a man's back out, you know."

Dee stretches up on her toes to kiss him. "I'll make a cake for dessert tonight," she says. "Extra frosting, okay?"

John looks pleased. He squeezes her hand. "That tub we had at home has probably been eaten," he warns.

"I'll buy some more."

"Chocolate?" John requests.

"Vanilla," Dee argues.

John gazes out the window at the snow-covered landscape and sighs in resignation. He still has a grin on his face as he gives in. "Vanilla, okay."

Dee leans her head against his chest tiredly. "Next time we go away together," she says, "can we go somewhere warm?"

"The beach," John says longingly, stroking his thumb over the back of her hand.

Dee smiles, remembering how easy it was to sleep in narrow little beds with John in Sea City. "Last night wasn't so bad, John. I just didn't sleep because I was so worried."

"I know."

Dee looks out at the landscape. The snow is deep, and everything looks oddly smooth and bulked. "Can you stay home for the rest of today?" she asks.

"You want me to miss a full two days' pay?" John asks in surprise.

"No," Dee admits. "But I want you to stay home and build a snowman with me in the yard."

John laughs and hugs her, leaning against her so she's completely trapped between him and the rocking wall of the train car. "I'll see what I can do," he says against her ear. "I'm too tired to drive through so much snow to Stamford today, anyway."

"We can build snowmen, then," Dee says tiredly. "And have hot chocolate."

"And listen to stories about the Abominable Snowman," John says, sounding rather wistful.

"And stories about midnight snacks of melting ice cream," Dee agrees.

John breathes a sigh against the top of her head. "Staying home sounds like a great idea," he says. 


	16. Library

**Title/Prompt:** Library  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 4641  
**Summary:** He looked up, and his eyes locked on hers. Alma's racing heart skipped a beat.

**Notes: **This was originally meant to be a prequel to HANDS (chapter 11). lol at how that worked out. So glad to finally have this finished! I swear one day I will post something other than parent fic, but the parents of the BSC are just so much fun to write...  
Thanks to lj users isabelquinn and luxken27 for beta'ing! Any remaining mistakes or errors are mine only.

Thank you all so much for reviewing, favouriting and subscribing! :)

* * *

Alma settled herself on the couch and propped the book against her knees. It was worn at the edges, and some of the pages were feathered and soft, like they had been thumbed through time after time.

She opened the cover again to look at the ink on the inside page. It was dark and fresh, stark against the dusky paper. _Richard __Spier._

Alma smiled to herself and turned to the first chapter.

She didn't really mean to read it. But she found herself turning pages as the sun dimmed outside, the light growing to a rich yellow and then fading pale until she had to reach behind herself to turn the lamp on.

She found herself shifting uncomfortably sometimes at some of the content, her teeth worrying her lower lip. Now and then she'd smile to herself and commit a line or two to memory.

Jane came home, but Alma only murmured a brief greeting, her eyes still glued to the pages.

She made herself a sandwich when it was dark outside and when the clock had chimed three times more than she thought it would. She stretched and took the book to bed with her, finally closing it again sometime in the thinner hours of morning, the silvery moon bright and high.

She shrugged herself beneath the blankets and gazed at the closed book, which sat on her bedside table next to a glass of water and a pile of coloured bangles.

Sleep eventually beckoned, and despite how late it was when Alma finally succumbed to it, she felt rested and content when she woke again the next morning.

* * *

Alma stood behind a row of varied dictionaries, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She had dressed carefully, choosing a blouse that didn't seem as faded as the rest of them and stepping into a skirt her mother had often complimented her on.

She looked down at herself, not really sure why it suddenly mattered so much.

She gripped the book tightly – mostly to stop her hands from shaking – and took a deep breath before she stepped around the safe barrier of the bookshelves, into view.

He didn't look up. He was running his finger down the index in the back of one of his textbooks. Alma suddenly wondered if it was wise to disturb him.

She looked down at the book again, bit her lip, and headed for his table. Her heart beat heavily in her chest and her stomach swirled with butterflies.

She cleared her throat softly and breathed in a gentle gasp of air before she spoke. "Excuse me," she whispered. She could feel a blush rising in her cheeks as a wave of self-consciousness washed over her.

He looked up, and his eyes locked on hers. Alma's racing heart skipped a beat.

She held the book out, gazing helplessly at him with wide eyes. "I think you left this here, yesterday," she said.

His eyes dropped to the book in her hands, and she saw him blink as he recognised it.

"Oh," he said, faint surprise tinting his voice. "Yes, that's mine. Thank you." He took it from her hands and looked up to smile his thanks.

Alma smiled back, her face feeling rather warm. "You're welcome." She hesitated a moment, her hands clasping themselves together in front of her. "I read it," she admitted suddenly. "I hope you don't mind."

He smiled at her again, wider this time, and Alma gazed at him, transfixed.

"No, of course not," he answered. "Did you enjoy it?"

She wondered suddenly if she was bothering him – if he was merely being polite to humour her. But the smile on his face lingered, and his eyes shone at her from behind his glasses. They were blue. Alma had never been close enough to notice before.

"I was up all night reading it," she confessed. She shifted her weight, still feeling shy and exposed as she stood beside him.

He turned the book over in his hands, his thumb stroking down the spine. Alma felt a shiver run through her.

"I haven't had the time to read it yet," he said. "I bought it at a book sale a few weeks ago and I've been carrying it around ever since."

"It's not for class?" she heard herself ask. She bit her lip again and glanced down at the textbooks covering the table in front of him. She hoped she wasn't bothering him.

"No," he answered. He smiled at her again. "Thank you for returning it. I hadn't realised I'd lost it."

"You're welcome," Alma said again, and she took his second thanks to mean the conversation was over. She lowered her head, smiling shyly at him again before she hurried back to the desk. She busied herself with the book cart, breathing rapidly, willing her heart to slow down and her face to return to its normal colour.

She wasn't sure if it was just fanciful thinking or not – but she thought she could feel his eyes on her as she sorted the books in front of her.

* * *

He set a book down on the counter after carefully gathering his things. The book was thick and heavy and Alma was convinced it was for class, not pleasure.

She carefully wrote the due date on a thin slip of card, feeling his eyes on her for sure now. She tucked the card into the pocket on the inside of the back cover.

"I think you'll enjoy _To __Kill__ a__ Mockingbird _better," she said, sliding the heavy library book back across the counter to him.

He gave her a wide, easy grin, and her heart skipped and drummed again at the warmth and readiness of it. "I don't doubt I will," he said, and he tucked the book under his arm, glancing back at her once before he reached the door.

Alma had a smile on her face for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

Alma sat outside the campus library, her face turned up to the sun, her hands busy as she dreamily braided her hair. It was a break between classes, and the weather was so nice she'd decided to sit outside instead of retreating to her usual shadowy corner between the towering bookshelves in the library.

Sometimes she wondered if she would ever be daring enough to approach Richard Spier and share the large wooden table where he always sat. There was more than enough room for one person.

She doubted she would ever work up the courage, but it was nice to dream for a while, imagining herself approaching him and casually asking him if the seat opposite was taken.

She reached the end of her braid and realised she had nothing to secure it. She dropped her hand and the braid loosened slightly, but kept its form over her left shoulder.

It was pure chance – luck, she thought – that caused her to look up and catch Richard Spier's eye as he strolled toward the library doors.

He smiled at her and nodded his head.

Alma's hand fluttered a nervous wave in return.

* * *

It made Alma anxious when Jane insisted upon whispering and talking in class. Alma just wanted to sit and concentrate, taking notes and writing down her assignments. Besides, it was rude to talk.

"It's a boy, right?" Jane whispered in Alma's ear.

Alma blinked and tilted away from Jane's whisper. "What do you mean?" she whispered back, sending a nervous glance to the professor at the front of the room.

"The reason you're so starry-eyed lately," Jane whispered, smiling knowingly. "You're thinking about a boy."

Alma felt her face growing red. "Don't be silly," she whispered back. She bent over her notes. "I'm trying to concentrate, Jane."

* * *

She was lost.

She gazed up at the nearest street sign worriedly. It meant nothing to her.

She frowned, trying not to dissolve into a hopeless case of frustrated, worried tears.

_It's__ only__ Stoneybrook_, she thought, trying to calm herself down._ The__ town __isn't __that __big,__ Alma.__ You__ can __find __your __way.__ Just__ stop __and __think __for __a __moment._

Compared to Maynard, Stoneybrook was enormous. Maynard was a narrow dirt road bordered by houses and fields. The few roads that did sprout off from Main Street were straight and open, and Alma knew precisely where they all went.

Stoneybrook was sprawling and winding, the streets curving off into random directions and doubling back on themselves. There were dead ends and wide, irregular blocks and properties that forced her out of her way before she could find another street to cross into. Streets that should have been short were long, and the distance between landmarks was always greater than she expected.

She glanced up at the sky worriedly. Purple and white thunderheads had been building steadily for the past hour, and a storm seemed imminent.

Alma hurried along the street, furious with herself for not double-checking the directions with Jane. She thought about finding a phone booth and calling to ask again, but she doubted Jane would be home.

The sky opened up within a minute of the first roll of thunder. Alma started to run, holding her history notebook over her head like a crude umbrella.

Lights glimmered in the distance, and Alma gasped with relief when she saw the hulking, shadowy outline of the Stoneybrook Public Library. She ran up the front steps and stood under the awning at the front. Rain ran from her clothes and dripped to the brick pathway.

She opened her notebook hastily. The front cover had been soaked, and the first few pages of her notes were now nothing but watered ink and wet paper.

She bit her lip and sniffed pathetically as another crack of thunder sounded loud above. She tucked her wet hair behind her ears and glanced into the library. It was lit, and dry and quiet. But she was still dripping water everywhere and she didn't suppose the staff would appreciate wet smudges and footprints through the building.

She stood under the awning, watching the rain pour down in silver curtains. Now and then a car would hiss through the water lying in the street, its headlights cutting a weak path through the storm.

The door behind her opened, and she turned automatically.

Her heart jumped when she saw who it was, and then quickly sank again.

_Of__ course_, she thought, looking down at herself. _Of__ course __he__ sees__ me __like __this._

For a brief moment she hoped he wouldn't recognise her. She kept her head down and fervently hoped he'd walk by, but the rain had stopped him, and he looked at her again.

"Goodness," he said in surprise, "what happened? Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes," Alma said, embarrassed. She glanced quickly at him and smiled, despite the rain and the heaviness of misery she felt just then. "I couldn't quite run fast enough, that's all. I got caught in the rain."

"So I see."

She glanced at him again. He caught her eye and offered her a sympathetic smile, which made her heart hammer even faster. He was wearing a long dark coat, and she couldn't help but wonder if he was really considering going out into the weather.

"Do you work at this library as well?" he asked, shifting three books around in his hands.

"No," Alma said, smiling again. "No. I needed a book for my history paper and the copy on campus has been checked out. I wanted to see if they had it here."

Richard shifted the books again and rolled his shoulders. "Would you hold these for a moment, please?"

"Of course." She took the books immediately and Richard shrugged out of his coat.

He held it out for her.

"Oh," Alma stammered, and her face started to glow warm. "I'm fine, thank you."

He smiled and offered the coat again. "I insist."

He helped her into it, holding it for her as she pushed her wet arms into the oversized sleeves. Her hands were lost inside, and she almost dropped his books to the ground. He took them from her again after pulling the coat up over her shoulders.

She was relieved to have it, though the air wasn't cold. "Thank you," she whispered, embarrassed again.

He smiled. "You're welcome."

They stood in front of one another for a moment, the rain hammering down around them.

"You were right, by the way," he said suddenly. "I did enjoy _To __Kill__ a __Mockingbird_."

She smiled, pleased. "There's a film," she said. "Have you seen it?"

"No," he answered regretfully.

"Neither have I." Alma wiggled her fingertips, which just brushed the ends of the sleeves of Richard's coat. She still had her history notebook in one hand. She looked down at it worriedly. "I think my notes are ruined," she said sadly. She turned the book around in her hands.

"Let me see?" Richard asked.

She handed her notes to him, knowing they were a lost cause. Richard peeled the wet pages open and winced at the running ink.  
"Is there someone in your class you can borrow notes from?"

"My cousin, Jane," Alma said, though she wasn't sure Jane took very detailed notes. Reminded of her history paper, she looked over her shoulder into the glowing light of the library. "I suppose I'll have to come back another day for that book." She looked down at her wet shoes. "I don't think I should go in like this."

"Which book do you need?"

"_A __History__ of__ Stoneybrooke_, by Joseph Hickman."

Richard smiled and pushed the library door open with one hand. "Don't run off with my coat, now..."

Alma smiled back at him.

She waited, smoothing her hair nervously and wriggling her toes inside her soaked shoes. The rain had lessened slightly, though she was sure she'd be stuck under the awning for some time before it stopped completely.

When Richard returned with the book under his arm, she smiled widely at him.

He smiled back at her and held the book out. "I'll swap it in exchange for a name," he said.

Alma blinked at him.

He grinned, and Alma felt her heart jump again. "My name was inside the cover of my book," he said, "so I'm sure you know it. I don't yet know yours..."

Alma looked down, flustered and embarrassed that she hadn't introduced herself sooner. "Alma," she said. "Alma Baker." She glanced up at him once; twice.

Richard handed her the book, and she clutched it tightly.

"It's nice to properly meet you," he said. "Alma."

She smiled shyly. "You too... Richard." She said his name quietly, and he smiled.

"There are town records inside," he said, nodding to the library doors. "You should keep them in mind for your paper."

"Oh, I will," she said, smiling back at him. "Thank you."

They stood side by side, watching the rain. It had lessened significantly now, though it was still quite steady. The temperature had dropped several degrees, and Alma, who was still wet, was greatly relieved to have Richard's coat around her.

"You're not from Stoneybrook," Richard said after a moment. "Did you move here for college?"

Alma glanced at him and nodded. "I'm from Iowa."

Richard smiled at her, looking surprised. "How did you end up here?"

"Oh," Alma said, giving a short laugh. She shrugged. "I had to move away if I wanted to go to college. There are barely enough people in Maynard to keep the schools open."

"There are no colleges in Iowa?" Richard asked teasingly.

Alma felt her face blush, but she laughed. "There are," she said. "But my cousin Jane lives here. She and I write to one another quite often and I suppose she planted the idea that I should come here with her..." Alma shrugged. "So I did. At least here I know somebody. I wouldn't know anyone if I went to some of the colleges I looked at in Iowa. My graduating class in high school was small and mostly boys, and they're all staying on to work on the family farms."

She looked out at the rain. "I like Stoneybrook though," she said after a moment. "Except on days like this, when I get lost. In the rain." She looked down at herself.

"I wasn't aware it was possible to get lost in Stoneybrook," Richard said, though his voice was more concerned than amused.

"Oh," Alma said again, embarrassed. "I know Stoneybrook isn't very big. But Maynard is _much_ smaller, and all the roads there are straight. None of the roads here are straight at all."

"That's true," Richard agreed.

"Did you move here for college too?" Alma asked, looking up at him.

"No," he answered. "I grew up here." He glanced at his watch, and then at her. "You should get out of your wet things," he said. "You'll catch cold if you don't."

"I know," Alma said fretfully, looking down at herself. "It was so nice when I left."

"Where do you live?" Richard asked. He motioned towards the parking lot. "I could give you a lift..." He smiled at her. "If you trust me, that is."

Alma hesitated for the briefest of seconds. "I'm on Forest Drive," she said. "I'm sure it's out of your way."

"You walked all the way from Forest Drive?" Richard asked.

Alma tucked her hair behind her ears. "It was nice when I left," she said again, smiling helplessly at him. "Don't worry about it, Richard, it's... I mean..." She cleared her throat, suddenly flustered at how casually she had dropped his name into the conversation. She steadied herself with a deep breath, but he spoke before she could protest again.

"I need to stop off on campus for a little while," Richard said. "Forest Drive isn't far from there. It's no trouble."

Alma looked down at herself again. "I'll get your car all wet."

He smiled and gave her a small shrug. "It'll dry out again."

* * *

"Who was that?"

Alma looked up in alarm as she closed the front door behind her. She could hear Richard's car pulling away from the curb, slicing through the puddles on the street.

Jane was leaning against the wall by the kitchen, a knowing smile on her face.

"Nobody," Alma said, immediately feeling flustered and defensive. "A friend from college."

Jane tilted her head. "I didn't know you had friends at college, Alma." She poked her tongue out briefly and laughed, pushing the kitchen door open. "You want a hot drink?"

"Yes please," Alma called. She put her books on the hall table. "I'm just going to get changed..." She ran upstairs, a smile still on her face.

She changed and grabbed a towel from the bathroom, padding back downstairs in bare feet and bell bottoms that were three inches too long in the legs.

"So who was it?" Jane called, hearing Alma's return down the stairs. "I didn't recognise the car."

Alma suddenly felt a need to roll her eyes, but she refrained. "Richard," she said, trying to sound casual as she towelled her hair, using it as an excuse to hide her glowing face from Jane's view. "It was raining, and I ran into him at the library. He gave me a lift home."

Jane set two large mugs down on the kitchen table with a clunk. "_Richard_," she said, turning the name into a purr. "I see."

Alma allowed herself to smile only as long as the towel was over her head. When she emerged, her hair in damp tangles around her shoulders, her face was straight – though still a slight shade of pink.

* * *

Alma flipped through _A__ History __of__ Stoneybrooke _later that evening as she curled against her pillows in bed, the rain still beating against the windows outside. She made a few notes for her paper, but found herself daydreaming, the pen swirling into patterns of flowers or stars as her mind wandered.

Eventually she turned out the light and shrugged herself further into her bed, a silly grin lingering on her face.

Getting lost hadn't turned out so badly, in the end.

* * *

The rain continued right through the night into the next day. The streets were running with water.

Alma spent an anxious morning trying to hurry Jane up.

"We're going to be _late_," she said desperately.

"It's only history class," Jane said irritably. "Relax, Alma."

"I can't relax," Alma snapped, suddenly uncharacteristically short-tempered. "My notes were ruined by the rain yesterday and I need today's lecture notes for my paper."

Jane sighed and pulled her raincoat on. "Come on, then."

"You haven't had breakfast," Alma said anxiously.

"I'm not hungry." Jane stepped out into the rain. "Are you working in the library today?"

"No," Alma answered, hugging her books tightly to her chest as they hurried across the soaked lawn to Jane's car, parked in the driveway. "But I need to go in this afternoon and get started on my paper."

"I'll come and see you after lunch," Jane said. "I should probably think about starting mine as well."

"Okay," Alma agreed. She felt a sudden wave of relief. She and Jane were different – far more different than Alma had prepared herself for as she'd left Iowa. To spend some time together in the quiet, familiar surrounds of the library would be a welcome change from the teasing and pressure she'd been feeling at home.

* * *

A loud group of girls and boys were at Richard's usual table in the library, laughing and shoving one another, papers and pens scattered between them. Alma furrowed her brow and found a small table to herself at the back, behind the encyclopaedias.

A tap on her shoulder made her look up before she'd even opened her books.

"Don't sit back here in the dark, Alma," Jane said, not bothering to keep her voice low. "Come and sit with us." She pointed in the direction of the noisy group sitting at Richard's usual table.

"Oh," Alma said, shaking her head. "I didn't know you were there. No, Jane, I won't be able to concentrate if I sit over there with all that noise."

Jane peered over Alma's shoulder at her notes. "The paper isn't due until next week," she said. "There's plenty of time. You need to meet a few people, Alma. You just hide away in here all the time with your nose buried in books."

"No I don't!" Alma denied.

Jane took the chair opposite Alma. "Come and sit with us."

"No," Alma said, almost pleadingly. "Really, Jane, I want to get this finished."

Jane sighed and tilted her head, looking at Alma carefully. "You know," she said, "your mom and dad are miles away. They won't know if you take a few steps off the Path of Goodness and Righteousness for a few hours, Alma."

"That's... I'm..." Alma struggled for something to say, her face turning red. She felt flustered and stupid, and beneath all of that, angry.

"Listen," Jane said impatiently, "I know your parents are strict, Alma. And I know Maynard is _tiny_. But if you keep hiding yourself away back here, you'll never meet anyone new. You'll never make any friends. And I thought that's what you wanted to do when you moved here?"

Alma almost gave in. _Almost_.

The stress of getting her work done won out over the stress of lacking a social life. "Tomorrow," she said. "I'll get a good start on my paper today, and I'll sit with your friends tomorrow."

Jane sighed and got to her feet. "Promise?"

Alma nodded.

Jane glanced down at Alma's books again and smiled, shaking her head. "Don't take it all so seriously, Alma," she said. "Life is meant to be fun." She headed back to her friends, who had quietened slightly under the glare of the head librarian, stacking books on the shelves beside them.

Alma flipped through her notes miserably. She thought Jane meant well, but once again, her cousin had managed to make her feel out of her depth.

She wished she _did_ have friends other than Jane. Someone to talk to about how overwhelming everything was sometimes. Someone to talk to about _Jane_, and how different the two of them were and how anxious it made her.

Sometimes Alma wished she'd never left Maynard in the first place.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Alma checked the time. She began to wish she'd stuck with Jane – she wasn't confident that her cousin would still be on campus, which meant she'd probably have to walk home.

The rain was nothing more than drizzle when Alma left the library, but she was sure it was enough to soak her through by the time she reached Forest Drive, despite her raincoat.

She sighed and stretched, sheltered by the high wall of the library. She watched a few students crossing the quad, their heads bent against the cold drizzle, and she figured she may as well join them.

"I'm beginning to think you like the rain."

She spun at the sound of Richard Spier's voice, and matched his smile with one of her own.

"Hello," she said.

He laughed. "Hello."

"Oh," she said then, realising what he'd said before. "I like it from _inside_," she said. "I don't really like walking through it."

"You could have fooled me," Richard said, smiling at her and pulling his coat on.

Alma tucked her hair behind her ears and gestured to the library. "I didn't see you in there."

He pushed his glasses up his nose. "I was hidden today," he said. "I didn't see you, either."

Alma tried to keep her face passive, but failed. She smiled again, pleasantly warmed by the fact that _maybe _he looked for her as often as she looked for him.

He smiled back at her. "Don't walk home yet," he said suddenly. "The rain will stop soon, I'm sure." He shifted his feet and put his hands in his pockets. "I was going to get some coffee," he said. "Would you like some?"

Alma felt a small shiver run down her spine. Before she could take a moment to assess her next move, she heard herself say, "I don't really like coffee that much."

Richard tilted his head. "Oh."

Her heart plummeted. She felt her face growing hot and she began to think of excuses to high-tail it out of there, leaving him behind so the rain could cool her embarrassment.

"Hot chocolate, then?" Richard asked, smiling at her.

Alma let out a loud breath of relief. "Oh," she said. "Yes. I like hot chocolate."

He laughed and held out his arm. She took it and, linked together, they walked forward into the rain.


	17. Breathe

**Title/Prompt:** Breathe  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 1118  
**Summary:** Anna watches anxiously as Abby presses on the inhaler and fights to breathe in the first dose of medication.

**Warning:** May be triggering for anyone who has suffered a bad asthma attack or who may be triggered by suffocation.

**Notes: **Written in the wee hours of the morning. I wanted to write something other than parent fic, and I decided to push myself and write something Abby-ish. I have to say she is one of my least favourite characters. I love _Abby's Book_, but that's about it. But I hope I've written something okay here, and kept her canon self intact without it causing migraines.  
Please note I've got no personal experience when it comes to asthma, but I hope what I've written comes across as realistic. Asthma attacks sound terrifying.  
Thank you, isabelquinn (lj), for helping me out with this one at 2am. Hearts to you.

Thank you all so much (again!) for reviewing, favouriting and subscribing! :) For those of you celebrating this holiday season, be merry, be safe, and have a wonderful time!

* * *

Abby knows, even before it's really started, that this is going to be a bad one.

And Anna knows too, because the second Abby sinks to her knees, Anna is racing across the soccer pitch, a spare inhaler in her hand, her eyes wide.

"Hey," Abby wheezes. "It's almost like we have ESPN or something..." She chokes at the old joke and Anna ignores her, thrusting the inhaler in Abby's face.

She is too breathless to say thank you. Her lungs feel tight and flat, like they're sucking against the back of her spine. Her throat feels narrow and she's aching for air and she just _can't __get__ any __in._

She breathes out, though her lungs are aching for her to breathe in.

She breathes out. She breathes out. And then she shakes her inhaler and she puts it in her mouth and fights to breathe in again. Tries to force air in down the narrow little passageway that her throat has become.

Anna watches anxiously as Abby presses on the inhaler and fights to breathe in the first dose of medication.

"Hey!" One of Abby's opponents has only just noticed Anna's presence on the field. "You're not allowed out here!"

Anna fixes a glare on her just as Abby's coach runs up, breathing heavily. "Are you all right, Abby?"

Anna answers for her. "I think we need to get her to hospital."

Abby's trying not to panic. She's had bad attacks before. She's been in hospital before.

(But this is so bad, and her lungs hurt and they're small and on fire and she just _can't._)

"Take more, Abby," Anna says anxiously, motioning to Abby's inhaler. "Take another one."

A crowd has gathered. From the corner of her eye, Abby can see the muddy knees of her team-mates. She tries to concentrate on her inhaler, but she's embarrassed and scared, and her chest hurts and it's getting worse; it's getting so bad...

"You need to call an ambulance," Anna blurts, looking up at Abby's coach. "Right now. And call our mom."

Abby crushes Anna's hand in a vice-like grip.

"Don't worry," Anna soothes. "It'll be okay, Abby."

The inhaler hasn't helped. Abby clutches it in her other hand, her palm slippery with sweat. She can hear her own breath squealing past the narrow gap in her throat.

And she can smell grass and mud and dirt and she thinks if she sneezes she will die; she will actually die from sneezing and it's both terrifying and (somehow) hilarious at the same time.

Anna fusses with Abby's hair, looking pale and worried.

Abby doesn't know which one of her team-mates has run off to call the paramedics, but Coach is still there, leaning over her, eyes narrowed with concern.

"Just breathe, Abby," Coach says.

"She can't!" Anna snaps. "Can't you see she _can't_ breathe?"

Underneath all the fire and tension knotted in her chest, Abby wants to make light of Anna being so tense and terse. She also, sort of, wants to laugh at the idiocy of her soccer coach. (_Just__ breathe, __Abby._)

Abby's eyes are watering and she doesn't know if it's because of her asthma or if it's because of her tears, or if it's because of something like all this mud and grass she's kneeling in.

"The paramedics are coming," Anna says, trying to keep her voice carefully measured.

Abby's next painful breath hitches, like her throat has finally closed up completely. Instead of a narrow, rattling, thin intake, she coughs, and she loses precious air and suddenly she's panicking, her inhaler landing in the mud and her fist wrapping itself in Anna's t-shirt.

She can't breathe in and she can't breathe out and even if she wanted to (and she doesn't, she doesn't she doesn't) she couldn't sneeze because there's just nothing _there._

Anna grips her and she starts sobbing and pleading for people to go and find the paramedics, to get them here _now_ because _Abby__ can't __breathe, __she__ can't__ breathe..._

Abby slides sideways, down into the mud, and her own heartbeat is loud in her ears.

Anna pulls herself together again, striping mud across her face as she rubs her tears away. "Look at me, Abby," she demands, sounding bossier than she ever has in her life. She leans over Abby, her hair framing her face.

The mud is wet and cold against the back of Abby's t-shirt.

"It's all right," Anna says. "It's going to be fine."

Abby wants to remind her about their twin mind-reading skills, because _Oh, __Anna,__ you __liar._

"Just breathe in, slowly," Anna says.

Abby can barely hear her over the painful, desperate throbbing of her own heart and lungs.

Anna holds her hand up like she's conducting oxygen into Abby's airways, and suddenly she looks so calm and in control, Abby finds herself believing her, just a little.

But it's not enough. She can't physically get enough air into her lungs. Sparks are flashing at the edges of her vision. Her fist is still bunched in Anna's t-shirt. She's wet all over and mud is in her hair and against her back.

Anna grips both of Abby's hands in her own, tightly, mud clammy on her skin. "They'll be here soon," she says, trying to smile encouragingly. Her eyes and her voice and _everything_ about her looks like panic and fear.

Abby finds her thoughts tumbling into insanity. (_No __change __there,_ says the little voice at the back of her head.)

But she wants to claw her throat out. She wants to open her throat up to the air so she can get it down into her lungs. Her feet kick and slide against the ground as she arches her body, trying to find some position that lets her suck in a little more, little more, just a _little__ more._

Anna pins her down. "Stop it!" she says fiercely. "Abby, look at me."

She's almost too tired to listen.

But Anna's eyes are brimming with tears and if there's anyone Abby trusts and loves, it's Anna.

"It will be all right," Anna says, and she sobs. "Just breathe, Abby. Please just breathe."

She breathes out. She breathes out when she wants to breathe in. She breathes out when she thinks there's nothing left _to_ breathe out. She wants to breathe in.

She wants to breathe in. That comes next.

Anna's thumbs leave muddy prints against Abby's face. "One more," she whispers. "Just look at me and breathe, Abby."

Abby looks at her. She looks at Anna and breathes.


	18. Hospital

**Title/Prompt:** Hospital  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG  
**Word count:** 4523  
**Summary:** Charlie Thomas rushes to his mother's side after Watson suffers a heart attack.

**Notes: **Set during #81 _Kristy and Mr. Mom._ Written for luxken27 as part of fandom_stocking on livejournal. Please note, the next few chapters will follow rather quickly - probably one per day. If you're not already subscribed to this story but you want to keep track, now would be a good time to sign up. :) Thank you all so much for the comments, favs and subscriptions! :)

Thanks to livejournal users isabelquinn and lucida for their help and support with this one. :)

* * *

"Nice fumble." Charlie smacked his shoulder into Sam's.

"Maybe if you could throw straight..." Sam punched Charlie's arm and grinned.

"Boys!" Coach beckoned them from the sideline.

Sam glanced at Charlie worriedly. "He looks mad."

Charlie looked over to Coach. His mouth was pressed into a thin, grim crease.

"Yeah," he said, feeling his stomach twist slightly. "My throw wasn't that bad, was it?"

"It was fine," Sam said, already defensive. "It's slippery as all hell out here." As if to prove his point, Sam skidded on a frozen patch of mud.

Charlie clutched him, keeping him upright. "Well, we're winning," he said, glancing over to the score, on display by the sideline. "He can't be that mad."

"Coach?" Sam sniffed. His nose was red with the cold.

Coach's grim expression didn't change. "We've just had a call," he said. "Your stepfather has been taken to hospital."

Charlie felt his stomach swoop. "What?"

"He's had a heart attack. You'd better get home."

Sam tugged Charlie's arm. Aside from his red nose, his face looked ashen. "Let's go," he said, wanting to take immediate action. "C'mon."

Charlie followed him, his own breath loud and ragged in his ears. "When do you think this happened?" he asked. "D'you think Coach had us out there playing football until half-time, just because –"

"Hurry up!" Sam urged, breaking into a run. "Come on!"

Charlie followed him into the locker room.

"Let's go." Sam grabbed his bag, but Charlie caught his arm.

"Get changed first," he said. "You're all wet."

"Charlie!" Sam barked. "Watson's had a _heart_ attack!"

Charlie began stripping layers, his fingers numb. His heart hammered in his chest. "Better hurry up, then," he said.

He wanted to leave as much as Sam did, but logic told him it was cold outside, and running around in wet clothes wasn't a good idea. His mind raced. All he could think about was how he and Watson had tried to get the car out of drifts of snow on Saturday morning. All he could think about was the fact he'd been _in_ the car while Watson had tried to push it.

_This is my fault,_ he thought. _I should've been the one pushing..._

He shoved his feet into his boots and crammed his wet, muddy gear into his bag. Sam jumped about on one foot, trying to tug a wet sock off.

"D'you think it's because he was pushing the car on Saturday?" he asked breathlessly. "Do you think it happened while he was at work?"

"I don't know," Charlie said, fumbling in his pockets for his car keys. "You've got your shirt on backwards."

"Who cares?" Sam snapped. He pulled his boots on and scooped his football gear up. "Let's go."

* * *

"Do you think we should go home, or to the hospital?" Charlie asked, gripping the steering wheel with frozen fingers.

"Coach said we should go home."

Charlie cursed under his breath. "I wish I'd asked who called. Do you think Nannie's at home? Do you think Kristy's by herself with the kids?"

Sam started chewing his fingernails. "I dunno."

"I hope he's okay." Charlie swallowed, suddenly feeling choked and suffocated. He couldn't stop thinking about trying to get the car out of the driveway on Saturday morning.

Sam wiped his hands over his face. "Let's go home and find out what's going on."

Charlie nodded, though his throat seemed to close in even further as they drove away from the direction of the hospital and back across town.

The roads were slick, and another dusting of snow was starting to settle on the ground. The wipers beat the flakes away, but the windshield was fogged up. It seemed to take forever to drive each block, and Charlie's muscles were tensed and tight as he navigated through the icy slush.

"Can't you go any faster?" Sam asked anxiously. "The roads aren't that bad, are they?"

Charlie swallowed and shrugged. "We're almost there."

Sam jumped out the minute Charlie pulled into the driveway. Charlie hurried after him, though his insides felt leaden and cold.

He realised he was expecting bad news, and he silently berated himself as he followed Sam into the house.

"Nannie?" Sam called. "Mom?"

Kristy appeared from the direction of the kitchen, wide-eyed and pale. "They're at the hospital."

"Any news?" Sam asked anxiously.

Kristy shook her head, twisting her fingers nervously. "It's been ages. Nannie said she'd call once they found out..." She trailed off and bit her lip, hard.

Charlie saw her eyes brighten with tears, and he jerked himself forwards, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Where's David Michael? And Emily Michelle?"

"Asleep." Kristy wiped her eyes quickly, and Charlie felt her straighten her back. She drew in a quivery breath and Charlie squeezed her shoulder.

"How'd it happen, Kristy?" Sam asked softly. His eyes were almost as wide as hers.

"He was shovelling snow," Kristy said in a small voice. She looked up at Charlie. "Right after you dropped me off."

Charlie swallowed again, instantly wishing he'd pulled into the drive instead of dropping Kristy at the curb. Maybe if he'd seen Watson shovelling snow, he would have taken over...

Kristy looked back over her shoulder. "Dawn and Mary Anne are here," she said. "And Shannon. I think they're making hot chocolate or something. Do you guys want some?"

"No," Charlie murmured.

"Yeah," Sam breathed in relief. He flexed his numb fingers.

Kristy pulled herself out from under Charlie's arm, and he saw her straighten again as she prepared to take charge.

"I'm gonna to go the hospital," he blurted.

Kristy turned back to him in surprise. "Nannie said she'd call..."

Charlie shook his head. Guilt and tension, fear and grief were all battling inside him. For a moment he thought he'd be sick. "I'll go and find out what's going on," he said.

"I'll stay here," Sam said, stepping slightly closer to Kristy.

Charlie nodded, feeling relieved.

Kristy looked torn. "What if she calls after you leave?"

Charlie shrugged and clenched his car keys in his palm. "I guess I'll find out once I get to the hospital."

"Call us the _minute_ you know anything," Kristy ordered, her voice suddenly fierce.

"I will," Charlie promised. "Have you called Lisa? Do Karen and Andrew know?"

"I called Lisa," Kristy confirmed. She twisted her fingers again. "Do you think I should have called Watson's office? I only just thought of it..."

Charlie shook his head. "Don't worry about that," he said. "We'll figure that out in the morning."

"Okay." Kristy looked over her shoulder again.

Mary Anne Spier was hovering in the doorway. "Hi," she said awkwardly. "Do you guys want some hot chocolate?"

"Yeah," Sam said again. He rubbed his eyes, and then his stomach. "Thanks, Mary Anne."

Charlie backed towards the door. "I'll see you guys later."

Kristy watched him go, but she didn't say anything. Charlie felt her eyes on him even after the front door had closed behind him.

* * *

It was late. Charlie stuck to the main roads, despite it meaning a longer trip. He was unsure if the Junk Bucket would make it on roads that hadn't been cleared by constant streams of traffic. The air was clear and cold. The snow had stopped falling.

Charlie's mind was racing. He still felt guilt over his role in getting Watson's car out of the driveway on Saturday morning, even if it hadn't been directly responsible for his heart attack.

_I should've pushed, and Watson should've been in the car,_ he thought. He gripped the steering wheel. _I should've shovelled the drive this afternoon. _

He rubbed his hand across his mouth.

The hospital loomed up ahead as he approached Rosedale Road. Charlie stopped at the intersection, the indicator ticking loudly as he signalled a turn. He looked down the road towards the junction that turned into Bradford Court, and felt his stomach twist a little.

The hospital parking lot was almost deserted. A few cars were covered in shallow blankets of snow. Charlie parked and looked around for the Pink Clinker, but he couldn't see it. He wasn't sure if it was too dark or if it was disguised under a coating of snow and ice.

He hurried towards the hospital, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his breath fogging out around him. The front doors wouldn't open.

He cursed as he realised visiting hours were over. He changed direction and headed for the emergency department.

It was mostly empty, which relieved him. Hospitals made him anxious, and as much as he wanted to find Watson, he was uncomfortable about pushing his way through the emergency department to get information when, in all likelihood, Watson had been admitted beyond the emergency beds in the ward.

He leaned over the desk. His throat was still closed up. "My father was brought in this evening," he said, sounding hoarse. "Watson Brewer."

He watched as the nurse checked the computer in front of her, and then wondered if he should correct himself and clarify that Watson was his step-father.

_No,_ his brain said fiercely. _Think about it, Charlie._

He gritted his teeth. Watson was more of a father than Patrick. Charlie had a few fond memories of Patrick, but it hadn't taken Watson long at all to outnumber them. Watson was who Charlie thought of, without hesitation, when he thought of his parents.

"They're not allowing visitors in," the nurse said, apologetic.

Charlie's heart sank. "Do you know if my mom's still around? She came in with him, I think."

The nurse directed him to the end of the corridor. He followed little blue signs with neat, white print until he came to another nurses' station. He approached the desk, but rapidly changed direction when he saw his mother slumped in a chair further up the corridor.

"Mom!" Charlie called. He hurried to her, his heart racing. "Mom, how's Watson? Where's Nannie? What's going on?"

His mother smiled and got to her feet slowly. "You didn't have to drive all the way out here, Charlie." She reached for him and he hugged her tightly.

"How's Watson?" he asked again, and his voice was back to a croak.

"Stable," his mother said tiredly. "They keep saying it was only a mild heart attack..."

Charlie released a breath of relief. "So he'll be okay?"

Elizabeth nodded and sank back into the chair, gripping Charlie's hand.

He sat beside her and looked up and down the corridor. "Is Nannie still here?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "You just missed her. She just left."

Charlie rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. "So where's Watson?"

Elizabeth made a vague gesture to her right. "In there," she said. "They're running some tests and getting him settled for the night. I'm going to stay."

"Do you need anything?" Charlie asked anxiously. "I should've stopped to bring some of your things. I didn't think..."

"It's all right." Elizabeth squeezed his hand. "You really didn't need to come out here, honey."

Charlie felt himself grow defensive. "We didn't know what was going on," he said. "Coach pulled us out at half-time and told us Watson was in hospital..."

"I know," Elizabeth said. She hugged his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'm glad you're here. I just didn't want you to think I was expecting you to drive through all this snow."

Charlie relaxed a little. "It's not so bad out there now," he said. He slumped back in his seat and jogged one knee distractedly. "So what happened?"

Elizabeth shook her head slowly, staring at the floor. "He just collapsed on the porch," she said softly. "I was upstairs. Kristy was there..." She sucked in a quivery breath. "Have you seen Kristy?"

"Uh-huh. Mary Anne and Dawn are there. And I think she said Shannon was there, too."

"Oh, good," Elizabeth said. She rubbed her face tiredly. "Is she all right?"

"Yeah, I think so." Charlie picked at the zip on his parka.

"You should go home," Elizabeth whispered. "It's late."

He looked at her. She looked pale and shaky, and for a moment the background of the hospital corridor disappeared and he was ten again, in their living room in Bradford Court as his mother told him Patrick wasn't coming home, ever. She had the same lost, terrified expression. Fear and grief pinched her face.

Charlie bit his lip and looked back down at the floor. "I'll stay a bit longer."

* * *

Charlie bought his mother coffee from a vending machine that made enough noise to make his ears turn red with self-consciousness. He could feel the night staff at the desk watching him, but he refused to turn around.

When he approached Elizabeth again, a doctor emerged from Watson's room, flanked by two nurses.

Charlie's heart skipped a beat. "Is he all right?" he blurted.

The doctor looked at him and frowned slightly.

"My son, Charlie," Elizabeth said, as though defending Charlie's arrival. She got to her feet. "How's Watson?"

"Stable, but very tired," the doctor answered. "We need to run more tests and keep him here for a few days."

"Will he be all right?" Charlie asked. He kept a careful hold on the cardboard cup of coffee. His mind felt over-wrought and stretched, and suffocating thoughts tightened and imprinted deeply.

_I can't lose another father._

"There's always a risk of another heart attack," the doctor said, looking uncomfortable. "But there are plenty of steps Watson can take to prevent this sort of thing happening again."

Charlie immediately, silently swore that he'd never let Watson shovel snow again – ever.

"Can I see him?" Elizabeth asked breathlessly.

"He's not up to much visiting," the doctor warned. "You can go in, but don't expect much conversation. He's tired, and rest is the best thing for him right now."

Elizabeth turned to Charlie and saw the coffee in his hand.

"You go in," Charlie blurted. "I'll wait here, Mom. It's fine."

"I won't be long."

He shook his head. "Take as long as you want." He gave her what he hoped was a confident smile. "Say hi to Watson for me."

Elizabeth squeezed his hand before she ducked past the doctor into Watson's room.

Charlie sank into the plastic chair his mother had just vacated and listened to the doctor's footsteps fade away.

He looked down at the coffee and thought about taking a sip, but he didn't like coffee much. He just clutched it in his hand. He couldn't hear anything from Watson's room, and after a minute, curiosity and worry got the best of him.

He leaned over and peered around the door-frame.

He could see his mother, bent over at the side of the bed, murmuring softly. She was holding tightly onto Watson's hand.

Watson was propped up against several pillows. His face was white and drawn, lines creasing his forehead and around his eyes, which were closed. An oxygen mask covered his mouth. Tubes and wires ran from his arms and his chest away to a machine concealed by the curtain that hung on a rail around the bed.

Charlie thought he looked dead. He withdrew quickly, his heart hammering painfully. His mouth tasted sour and he felt shivery and, suddenly, terrified. He was relieved Kristy and Sam had stayed at home.

He sat rigid, too afraid to look around the corner again.

Elizabeth returned a few minutes later, looking tired and shaky. "He's asleep," she said.

Charlie stood up. "Are you okay, Mom?"

She nodded, but she pressed her fingers hard against her mouth.

For a brief second, Charlie wished she would hug him, just so he could feel all right – just for a minute. Instead, he put the coffee down on the chair and hugged Elizabeth tightly. "He'll be all right," he assured her, though he was as certain as ever that his mother could tell when he wasn't telling the truth.

He didn't think he was lying – he didn't _want_ to be lying – but he was too afraid to be confident in what he'd just said.

Elizabeth nodded, but didn't say anything. After a moment Charlie felt her sob, though she kept the sound muffled behind her hands.

"Do you want me to take you home, Mom?" Charlie asked softly, resting his head down against her shoulder.

"No," she croaked. She sniffed. "I'm going to stay here tonight."

"Are you sure?" Charlie couldn't imagine a worse place to spend the night. He immediately felt guilty, like he had just contributed to the possibility of something further going wrong. He felt like he had just exposed himself as selfish. He felt that he should be offering to stay as well.

"I'm sure." She kept hold of him, and he didn't let go either.

"He'll be all right, Mom," Charlie said again. It sounded less like a lie the second time.

She nodded, her hands fisting in the thick padding of his parka. "You should go home, honey," she said quietly.  
"I can stay if you want," he said.

"No, it's all right." She took his face in his hands and kissed his cheek. "You go on home."

"Do you need anything?" Charlie asked worriedly. "I can bring you –"

"No," she said. She gave him a watery smile. "I'm sure you're right," she said. "Watson will be fine."

Charlie nodded and gave her the same sort of smile she had just given him. "Yeah."

They gazed at one another helplessly for a minute, until Elizabeth let go of him and wiped her eyes. "Go home, honey," she said again. "I'm sure Kristy and Sam are still awake. Tell them he'll be all right."

"Nannie's home, right?" Charlie asked hopefully.

Elizabeth nodded. "I told Watson you were here," she said. "I'm sure he'll want to see you tomorrow."

Charlie was still too nervous to look around the corner and see Watson so ghostly. "Did he say anything?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "He's not really up to talking," she said. "But I was holding his hand. I know he heard me." She reached up and touched Charlie's cheek, and this time her smile was more knowing than watery. "Go home and get some sleep," she said. "And stop worrying."

"I will if you will," Charlie said.

Elizabeth smiled. "I'll be all right," she said quietly. "I'm going to stay in there with him. I'll call the house if anything changes. I promise."

Charlie nodded and drew a deep breath. "All right," he said. "If he wakes up..." He shifted his weight and scratched the back of his head. "You know," he mumbled. "Tell him we're thinking of him, and we love him..."

"I will." Elizabeth drew his face down to kiss his cheek again. "Home," she said, and this time her tone was unmistakeably Mom. "Go and get some rest."

Charlie kissed her cheek and gave her another hug. "Call if you need anything," he ordered.

"I will."

"Or if anything changes."

"I promise."

Charlie pushed the lukewarm coffee into her hand. "If you want it," he said. "Night, Mom."

"Goodnight, Charlie."

Charlie left before he changed his mind, not happy about leaving his mother _or_ Watson behind in the hospital. He told himself Watson was in the best place, that he'd be looked after and that people were watching him to make sure he didn't get any worse.

But the image of Watson lying so pale and so lined and still wouldn't stop haunting him.

He swallowed sharply.

It was a relief to get out into the cold night again. He took his time crossing the parking lot, breathing in the icy air.

The windshield on the Junk Bucket had iced over. Charlie took a half-empty bottle of water from the backseat to defrost the glass, discovering both his and Sam's abandoned football gear. He made a mental note to throw it into the laundry before he went up to bed.

He hoped Nannie had reassured Kristy and Sam enough that they were asleep when he got home.

* * *

Charlie was halfway up the stairs when he realised he'd forgotten to bring in his wet football gear. He stood for a moment, wondering if it was worth going back out to get it.

Kristy's voice decided for him. "How's Watson?" She peered down at Charlie from the top of the stairs.

Charlie continued his tired march up. "He's doing all right. How come you're not asleep?"

"I can't."

Charlie smiled at her. "It's all right, Kristy. Mom's with him. He's asleep."

"He's all right?" she asked. "Nannie said it was just a mild heart attack, but it seemed so bad..."

Charlie's heart sank. He stopped beside her at the top of the stairs. "He's all right," he said. He put his arm around her. "Mom said you were with him when it happened."

Kristy wiped her eyes. "Yeah." She shivered and bit her lip. "I thought he was going to die on the porch," she whispered.

Charlie turned her around and started walking with her towards her bedroom. "We'll go and see him tomorrow," he said.

"Should I stay home?" Kristy asked.

Charlie looked at her. He hadn't thought about school, and his mother hadn't mentioned anything either. "See how you feel in the morning," he said eventually. "There's nothing we can do though, Kristy. He's being looked after."

"But we could go and see him in the morning, if I don't go to school," she said.

"If they're letting visitors in that early," Charlie cautioned. "I wasn't allowed in. I just saw him around the door."

"Oh." Kristy stopped outside her room and leaned against Charlie for a brief moment before she pulled away. "Is Mom all right?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay." Kristy drew in a quivery breath. "Sam wanted to see you when you got home."

Charlie nodded again. "Okay. Goodnight, Kristy."

"Night."

"Don't worry, okay?"

She shook her head and closed the door softly.

Charlie went to his room and changed into his pyjamas, pulling his wet socks off with a grimace.

He headed for Sam's room, checking in on David Michael first. He heard Shannon's tail thump softly in the dark, and knew she was probably curled up beside David Michael's bed.

Sam's light was on, and when Charlie knocked and went in, he couldn't help but notice how exhausted Sam looked. He was certain he didn't look much better.

"How's Watson?" Sam asked immediately, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"He's all right," Charlie said, trying to forget how Watson had looked and instead focus on what the doctors and his mother had told him.

Sam collapsed back against his pillows. "Nannie said it was mild," he said. "Did you see him? Did he say anything?"

"I didn't get to speak to him," Charlie said evasively, sitting on the side of Sam's bed.

"What if he dies?" Sam whispered.

Charlie looked over his shoulder at him. "He won't die, Sam," he said, perhaps a little too sharply.

"He's older than Mom."

"So what?"

Sam shrugged, obviously sorry he had said anything.

Charlie had a headache. "He won't die," he said again.

Sam picked at the top of his quilt. "I wouldn't care if Patrick died," he muttered.

Charlie looked at him in surprise. "What'd you say that for?" he asked angrily.

"Why shouldn't I?" Sam asked. "If we have to lose one of our fathers, I'd rather lose Patrick. It's not like it would matter."

"You shouldn't wish death on anyone," Charlie said.

Sam rubbed his hand over his eyes. "I just don't want Watson to die," he whispered. "Remember when Dad left? Remember what that was like?"

"That's different," Charlie answered. "Anyway, we don't need to worry. Watson's not gonna die." He set his jaw.

Sam looked at him for a long moment. "I'm glad you're here," he said after a while. "You were always good at making us feel better."

Charlie gave him a tired smile, but wasn't sure what to say.

"Want to sleep in here?" Sam asked suddenly.

Charlie hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.

Sam shoved a pillow down between the blankets.

"What's that for?" Charlie asked.

"I don't want to wake up tomorrow morning and find you spooning me," Sam said.

Charlie snorted and slid into the bed. "You wish."

Sam grinned and rubbed his eyes. "Is Watson _really_ all right?"

Charlie flicked the lamp off and waited until he felt settled in the dark. "I dunno. I think so. He just looks kind of... awful."

"Can we go see him tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I think so."

Sam sighed and Charlie felt the bed shift as his brother rolled over.

"Don't move that pillow," Sam mumbled tiredly. "My charity only goes so far, dude. No cuddling."

Charlie grinned and rolled onto his side. "You might like it."

"I don't want to find out."

Charlie laughed and punched the pillow beneath him, flattening it out. "Night, Sam," he said.

"Mm." Sam was already too close to sleep to voice proper syllables.

In the dark, in a comfortable bed with Sam's familiar night breathing filling the silence, Charlie found it easier to think positively.

_I'll shovel the front path tomorrow,_ he thought tiredly. _And the sidewalk. _He smiled to himself before he finally closed his eyes. _I bet Watson will laugh,_ he thought. _I bet he says he had to have a heart attack before I willingly picked up a shovel._

He found himself grinning. He pulled the blankets back up over his shoulders, which no longer felt as though such a leaden weight was settled across them.

_Charlie Thomas can handle a lot of shit,_ Charlie thought. _Charlie Thomas-Brewer can handle twice as much._


	19. Lunch

**Title/Prompt:** Lunch  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 698  
**Summary:** "I _must_ say," Karen said rather breathlessly, in an obvious imitation of some adult, somewhere. "I _am_ glad you could join me for a Ladies' Lunch, Kristin."

**Notes: **Written for livejournal user isabelquinn as part of fandom_stocking 2011.

* * *

Kristy tried not to look amused as Karen did her very best impression of Watson's _I'm Seriously Displeased_ face.

"Kristy," Karen said sternly. "You are late."

"I'm sorry," Kristy apologised humbly. "I _would_ have been on time, if my earlier attire had been considered appropriate. I'm usually very punctual."

Karen pressed the empty fingertip of an oversized white glove against her chin as she thought, her eyes critically running over the green blouse Kristy had pulled out of the closet for the occasion of Ladies' Lunch Day.

"I suppose what you are wearing now will have to do," she sighed eventually. "But it is not very _glamorous,_ Kristin."

"I don't have many glamorous clothes," Kristy answered.

Karen caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and spun to the doorway. "David Michael!" she barked. "This is a _Ladies' Lunch._ No boys allowed!"

David Michael lingered only long enough to send a sulky glare in Karen's direction before he disappeared again, mumbling to himself about unfairness and sandwiches.

Kristy glanced down to the cucumber sandwiches on the plate in front of her and just barely resisted wrinkling her nose. "How are the sandwiches?" she asked, hoping Karen would take the first bite and declare them unsuitable for consumption.

Unfortunately, Karen's gloves smothered her fingers completely and rendered her hands rather useless. She soon gave up on picking up a sandwich.

"The guest should always eat first," she said, motioning graciously to Kristy.

Kristy figured cucumber sandwiches couldn't be any worse than what they served up at SMS, and so she took a delicate bite from the corner of the nearest one. "Hm," she said, hoping she sounded more appreciative than grossed out.

"I made them myself," Karen said, watching Kristy munch her way through a particularly thick slice of cucumber.

"They're delicious," Kristy lied around a mouthful of soggy bread. "Have some."

"Kristy," Karen said, once again in a disapproving tone, "it is very rude to talk with your mouth full."

"Sorry," Kristy apologised, before she'd even thought about swallowing.

"And you should not put your elbows on the table."

"Sorry," Kristy said again. She watched Karen floundering inside her gloves for a moment. "Why don't you take your gloves off for lunch, Karen?"

Karen gave a dramatic sigh. "I _suppose_," she said. She removed her gloves by rapidly flapping her arms, her eagerness to try her cucumber sandwiches apparently overwhelming her desire to stay ladylike. "I _must_ say," she said rather breathlessly, in an obvious imitation of some adult, somewhere. "I _am_ glad you could join me for a Ladies' Lunch, Kristin."

"Oh, me too." Kristy swallowed the rest of her sandwich with a hefty gulp of purple grape juice, which made her eyes water.

Sam poked his head around the door. "I hope you're drinking with your pinky up, Kristin."

Kristy glared at him. "Sam..."

"This is a _Ladies' Lunch!_" Karen cried, all dignity forgotten. She slid off her chair and clopped to the door in an old pair of high heels that had once belonged to Elizabeth. "No boys!"

"You look lovely, Karen," Sam said, in a way of apologising. "I think Kristy could be a little more dressed up though."

"Sam!" Kristy barked.

Sam laughed and disappeared. Karen pushed the door closed behind him, a long string of fake pearls swinging from her neck as she moved.

"_Boys_," Karen said, widening her eyes at Kristy. "There is a _reason_ I made this a Ladies' Lunch."

"A very good reason," Kristy replied understandingly. She glanced to the rest of the cucumber sandwiches. "Er, Karen? How about we make the next Ladies' Lunch a Ladies' High Tea instead? Then we can serve cake and cookies and stuff."

Karen's eyes positively bulged. "Oh," she gushed, clutching her pearls in her hands. "A high tea sounds positively _divine,_ Kristin." She clopped back to the table and pulled her gloves back on. "We should start making plans for this immediately."


	20. Audience

**Title/Prompt:** Audience  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 822  
**Summary:** John Pike is exhausted, but his daughters Mallory and Vanessa make an eager audience when it comes to bedtime stories...

**Notes: **Written for miss_slipslop as part of fandom_stocking 2011.

Thank you to everyone leaving reviews! I've been trying to respond but FFN keeps giving me errors, IDK? Ugh. Anyway, thank you! (And I agree, Drucilla - cucumber sandwiches are delicious. But I doubt Karen would be patient enough to make them properly!)

_Wynken, Blynken and Nod_ was written by Eugene Field.

* * *

"_Please,_ Dad," Mallory begged, grasping her hands tightly in front of her. "Just _one_ more."

"One more," Vanessa echoed, her eyes wide and blue as she looked up at John.

John sighed and stifled a yawn, looking at his watch. "It's past your bedtime, girls."

"Just _one_," Mallory pleaded again, holding a book up. "One more."

"Please," Vanessa added. "Please, Daddy."

John sank onto Mallory's bed and took the book. "One more."

Mallory threw herself back under the covers on her bed, clutching a stuffed bear, a look of unlimited glee on her face.

Vanessa stared across the room intently, her thumb in her mouth. She removed it long enough to say, "Please show the pictures," before she rolled onto her side and blinked sleepily at him.

John stretched out across Mallory's narrow bed, one ear tuned for any sounds from downstairs.

He stifled another yawn and thumbed through the pages. He glanced at Mallory, and then at Vanessa.

Turning the book in his hands so Vanessa could see the illustrations, he started to read.

"_Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night_

_sailed off in a wooden shoe..."_

Mallory whispered the words along, and Vanessa blinked contentedly, her face half-hidden under her pink quilt.

"_Sailed on a river of a crystal of light_

_into a sea of dew..."_

John followed the words along, his voice low and heavy with tiredness. The girls listened silently, Mallory's soft echo stopping so she could hear John say,_"The old moon laughed and sang a song."_

Dee poked her head around the door. John looked back at her helplessly. She grinned at him and disappeared, carrying Nicky – asleep against her shoulder – to bed.

"_The little stars were the herring fish_

_that lived in that beautiful sea..."_

John read quietly, glancing to his daughters now and then. Vanessa had already drifted off, her breath heavy, her eyes closed.

Mallory was still awake, her eyes bright as she watched her father read.

John stretched out and put his head next to hers on the pillow, holding the book up above them.

"_All night long their nets they threw_

_to the stars in the twinkling foam..."_

The third time John yawned, he caught sight of Mallory finally closing her eyes.

"_Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,_

_and Nod is a little head._

_And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies_

_is a wee one's trundle-bed..."_

He slowed a little, softening his voice further, waiting anxiously to see if Mallory would open her eyes.

She turned her head and sighed, her fingers curling into the thick fur of the teddy bear beside her.

"_So shut your eyes while Daddy sings_

_of wonderful sights that be,_

_And you shall see the beautiful things_

_as you rock in the misty sea_

_Where the old shoe rocked the fisherman three - _

_Wynken, Blynken and Nod."_

The silence seemed loud when John finally finished. He held his breath for a few long moments, listening to his daughters breathing. Mallory rolled over.

John sighed quietly and closed his eyes with relief.

Dee nudged her husband awake half an hour later. "Hey," she whispered.

John lifted his head, confused. "What?"

"Our bed is far more comfortable." Dee kissed him softly.

John finally made out the vague shapes of stuffed animals in Mallory and Vanessa's bedroom, and realised he'd fallen asleep beside Mallory, his head pillowed on a pink frilly cushion.

"Oh," he groaned. He sat up carefully, watching Mallory with bated breath. She didn't stir.

Dee took his hand as he closed the bedroom door quietly.

"Are the boys asleep?" he asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Sorry," he apologised. "I got stuck reading."

"What a hardship," Dee said, her eyes twinkling.

"I'm really sorry," he said again. He kissed her.

"It's all right." Dee picked up a camera on the hall table. "I got my revenge."

He stopped. "Oh," he groaned again.

Dee laughed and shook the camera gently. "I can't wait to get this developed."

"You're a witch." But he put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. "You okay?"

"I'm okay." She patted her pregnant belly. "I'm pretty sure we've escaped triplets again."

"I'll leave you if we haven't," John joked.

"I'll hunt you down," she returned, just as quickly.

He chuckled and kissed her again. "Let's go to bed."

"Will you read to me?" Dee asked with a smile, following him to the bedroom.

John grinned and stretched out on their bed, too tired to change out of his clothes. Dee curled up beside him and yawned.

John closed his eyes and rolled over, fitting around her, his hand resting on her belly.

"_Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night_

_sailed off in a wooden shoe..."_


	21. Follow

**Title/Prompt:** Follow  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 1201  
**Summary:** Being a triplet is hard enough, but feeling like you've gotta follow in your uncle's footsteps adds a whole other dimension of suck.

**Notes: **Written for lucida as part of fandom_stocking 2011 on livejournal. This is the last of my fandom_stocking fics. The next chapters will be fics I've written this year! :) And, I'll warn you in advance: 2012 looks like it's going to be a big year for Pike fic!

Thanks to everyone reviewing! :)

* * *

I don't see Uncle Jordan much. I'm not bothered, really.

It's not that I don't _like_ Uncle Jordan. He's a cool guy, I guess. I know Mom likes it when he comes to visit. And all of my brothers and sisters look forward to seeing him. But visits from Uncle Jordan usually involve some sort of awkward 'talk' between us, and I can never really figure out how to deal with them.

When Byron, Adam and I turned 16, Mom threw us a party in the back yard. Not a wild party or anything – I mean, _Mom_ was in charge of it – but it wasn't bad. Most of our cousins came, which was cool. We don't see them very often.

But to be honest, I don't really like birthdays.

Most of the time, my family is used to having three identical brothers around. On our birthday, we're kind of treated differently. Like suddenly they've just realised we all age on the same day. It sucks to hear the same jokes about clones and identical thought patterns over and over again – especially from the people you live with. The people who should be used to you; the people who should know you as individuals and not just as a set.

Most of the time, I like being a triplet. But I guess as I've gotten older I've discovered just how hard it is to forge your own personality, and I think I get it worse than Byron and Adam.

Because there's no Uncle Byron and there's no Uncle Adam, but there's an Uncle Jordan.

On our sixteenth birthday, most of our cousins left early. Our house hasn't got a lot of space, so most of our aunts, uncles and cousins left after cake in the afternoon. The younger kids were all crashed out after a sugar high anyway.

I was clearing away paper plates and napkins – something Mom had assigned me to – when Uncle Jordan found me and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Sixteen, huh?"

_No kidding,_ I thought. _What tipped you off?_

I said, "Yeah."

Uncle Jordan shrugged and I felt sort of bad. I don't know what I don't like him. The others all love him. And it's not like he's ever done anything to cause such dislike, really.

Except share my name.

"How's school?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine."

He nodded and helped me load another pile of dirty paper plates into the trash bag I was hiding.

"Had a good day?" he asked.

The poor guy seemed like he was really struggling for conversation. I couldn't see why he was bothering, really. We can never talk easily. It's always awkward. It's probably my fault.

"Yeah, it was pretty cool." I picked up a crumpled napkin and tossed it into the trash. "Thanks for coming," I added after a moment.

"Oh, sure," he said, sounding surprised. "Sure, no problem." He cleared his throat.

I started to wish he'd go and bother someone else. Any single one of my siblings would be pleased to talk to him.

"You know," he said, giving the same breathless laugh Mom makes when she's nervous, "I always find it harder to talk to you than your siblings."

He'd said exactly what I was thinking, but I still felt offended for a moment. I just nodded and concentrated on clearing away plates. One of them had a bit of cake left on it and I wondered if it'd be considered too gross if I picked it up and ate it. Lunch seemed forever ago.

"I always feel like I need to set an example, you know?" Uncle Jordan scratched the back of his neck.

I abandoned the clean up, trying to pin down why I felt so bothered. "Yeah," I said after a moment. I frowned. "I feel like I've gotta live up to you." I lowered my voice, glancing around for Mom. "I hate it," I admitted quietly. "I've already got two people I'm constantly competing with. I don't need another one."

Uncle Jordan grinned at me. He looked sort of relieved. "I haven't set a terribly high standard," he said.

I grinned back, feeling a little better about things. "Byron and Adam don't have this problem."

"Well, Adam was named after your grandfather. But he's dead, so it's not hard to outdo him at most things."

I laughed, and Uncle Jordan looked like he was relaxing a little. I felt kinda bad about making things difficult for him before.

He looked down at his hands after glancing around for the others. "I try really hard not to favour you," he said quietly. "I think I tried so hard that I did the opposite. I think things between us are a little colder than they should be." He looked upset.

I hoped this wasn't going to turn into one of those moments you see on Jerry Springer, where people cry and everything escalates into a shouting match with lawn chairs being thrown around because emotions have been suppressed.

"It's okay," I said.

Uncle Jordan shrugged. "I was beside myself when Dee named one of her kids after me, you know." He grinned again. "I felt like I had a duty of some kind. Like it'd be me who would teach you all this cool stuff, like how to talk Pig Latin –"

"You _did_ teach us that," I said, grinning at the memory.

He looked surprised, and pleased. "Did I?" He shrugged again and continued. "Anyway, once you started walking and talking, Byron and Adam were with you every step of the way, and I thought... you know... I can't treat _them_ any differently. But you'd been labelled different anyway, because you had my name, and I wasn't sure what to do..."

"I don't think I was stunted by any of it," I said, hoping we weren't headed for a hug. I'm no good at mushy stuff. (Mom had to birthday-hug me while I was trapped against the door of the fridge that morning, because I kept dodging her.)

Uncle Jordan gave a sigh, a smile, and a shrug. "Happy birthday, anyway, Jordan."

"Thanks," I said.

He nodded and walked back towards the house. He looked sort of sad. I hoped it wasn't my fault.

It wasn't my fault I'd been named after him. It wasn't his fault either, and I guess I can't blame Mom for it. She wasn't doing a bad thing, naming one of her sons after her brother.

It wasn't until that day, though – my sixteenth birthday – that I was really able to pin down why I was so bothered by it. It wasn't until then I realised Uncle Jordan was bothered by it too.

He felt he had to lead, and I felt I had to follow.

It turns out neither is true. All I gotta do is try to figure out who _I_ am.

And I figure, at 16, it's not so bad if I'm not sure who that is yet.


	22. Cold

**Title/Prompt:** Cold  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG  
**Word count:** 1493  
**Summary:** Dee and John Pike have just moved to Stoneybrook. Dee's got a cold, the television won't work, and the house is a mess. John's just started his new job, he thinks he'll probably be fired at any minute, but there's no time like the present to add a third Pike to the family - right?

**Notes: **I know, I know, more John and Dee fic! I can't seem to quit them! As always, thank you for reviewing! :)

* * *

It's the worst possible time for her to be sick.

John's just started his new job, and he's a bundle of nerves and jitters each morning before he finally knots his tie and finds his keys and heads out, pressing kisses against the top of her head and urging her to take it easy.

The house is a cluttered maze of boxes, all spilling their contents onto the floor. Saucepans and crockery teeter in stacks on the kitchen counter-tops. None of the kitchen chairs are at the table yet. Bubble wrap and tissue paper are clumped in heaps on the stairs.

And Dee's sick, her nose red and stuffed, her head full of spun cotton and her chest heavy with a weight she can't quite cough away.

The TV won't work yet (John says it's the antenna - "It's a fixer-upper, Dee..."), and Dee can't find any of the boxes with her books in them.

All she wants to do is snuggle on the couch in John's old bathrobe, watching reruns or reading crumpled paperbacks.

Her parents are coming for lunch on Sunday and this is not how Dee wants them to remember their first visit to the new house. She wants the place free of boxes and clutter and she wants the TV to work, damn it.

She sneezes and pulls John's bathrobe tighter around her shoulders.

* * *

"I'm starting to remember people's names," John says around the cord he's got clamped between his teeth.

Dee cups her mug of tea in her hands and watches him trying to hook the VCR up to the television. "Promotion tomorrow, then?"

"You better believe it, baby." He turns the television on and waits for the picture to come through. "I think maybe we're missing a wire."

Dee sighs and rests her head back against the pillow at the end of the couch. "I'm bored."

He kisses her apologetically. "I promise I'll get it fixed on Saturday."

"I'll be better by then," she grumbles, but she's not really mad. She puts her mug down on the floor and tugs at him until he's beside her, all legs and knees and elbows, far too tall for their tiny two-seater.

"Are your parents still coming on Sunday?" he asks after a moment.

"Uh-huh." Dee swallows thickly, her throat still feeling tender and narrow. "Think we can unpack by then?"

John lifts his head and looks over the back of the sofa at the rest of the living room. "No chance," he says.

Dee pushes him so he falls off the sofa. "You're the worst husband I've ever had," she says.

He laughs so hard he can't climb back onto the couch for another five minutes.

* * *

John's finding his new job a little too easy, and he finds himself worrying about it, because _everyone_ has told him it shouldn't be.

He thinks he's doing it wrong – and oh, shit, what if he hits the end of the week and his boss comes over to tell him it's just not working out?

He rings Dee at lunch time. "What would happen if I lost my job?" he asks her.

"Why, what have you done?" she asks.

He grins. "Nothing. I miss you."

"I miss you, too," she says, and he hears her cough against the back of her hand. "Will you bring me some cough syrup?"

"Uh-huh."

"Hurry home, Mr. Pike."

"Will do, Mrs. Pike."

He hangs up and he can't wait to get out of the office and back to his new, seemingly-huge and definitely-cluttered house in Stoneybrook.

* * *

All the spring rain they've had seems to be sending everyone into coughs and sniffles. John has no idea how he's managed to avoid it himself.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and hurries toward the store, praying the next shower will hold off until he can get back into the car.

He slows well before he reaches the doors of the convenience store on the corner. The big glass windows of a pet shop glitter with rain, and he can see four kittens rolling around in shredded newspaper, batting their paws against the other side of the glass whenever a raindrop slides past.

He taps his fingers against the window gently, and a ginger kitten swats at him, watching him with bright eyes.

* * *

John drums his fingers against the steering wheel as he waits at a red light. He looks at the kitten sitting in the box on the passenger seat.

"Okay," he says sternly. "Dee might be mad, so when we get home, I'll give her my Cute Face. If that doesn't work, you give her your Cute Face."

The kitten tilts its head.

"That's good," John says, turning his attention back to the road. "Just like that."

* * *

Dee's in the middle of a sneezing fit when John gets home. Her eyes are watering and her nose is red. A tissue is clutched to her mouth and her shoulders ring with pain at each heave of breath.

She's too tired and miserable to even say hello. "Did you get the cough syrup?"

"Yup." John hands her the bottle and kisses the top of her head. "Not feeling any better?"

She makes a clogged noise at the back of her throat instead of a proper answer.

John disappears into the kitchen and she hears the rustle of grocery bags.

"Did you find your books?" he asks.

"Not any of the ones I wanted." She's almost determined to stay miserable. She hates that she's sick, and she hates that the house is still so full of boxes, and she hates that she and John are apart for so much of the day.

She hates that the house is full of mess and empty of company.

"I got you a present," John says, sitting beside her on the couch. He places the ginger kitten gently on her stomach.

"_Oh,_" she breathes, and she sits up, cradling it in her hands and bringing it to her face to nuzzle against it gently. "Oh, John," she says, "he's _beautiful. _Are we keeping him?"

John grins at her, looking smug. "And I didn't even have to give you my Cute Face," he says.

* * *

Dee curls on the couch, watching the kitten bat at pieces of crumpled newspaper and bubble wrap, still scattered on the floor.

"Friday!" John cheers, sliding the knot of his tie to a close. "And I haven't been fired yet."

Dee tugs at his tie so he has to bend to kiss her. "Week's not over yet, honey."

"Thanks for your vote of confidence," he says, kissing her again. He picks the kitten up and puts him in Dee's hands. "He's in charge until I get back," he says. "Lots of cat naps."

"Yes sir," Dee answers. She smiles at him and waves through the windows, before she settles on the couch again, wiggling her fingers at the kitten and laughing as he pats at her hands.

"So," she says. "You're in charge, I guess, Sarge?"

* * *

"He's too little to be a Sergeant," John says tiredly, watching Sarge try once again to leap up onto the end of the bed.

"Let him up," Dee pleads.

"If you give in to him now, he'll be sleeping with us for the next ten years."

Dee grins at her husband. "My parents gave me the same warning about you."

John purposely crushes her beneath him as he reaches over to lift Sarge onto the bed. "Oh, sorry," he grunts.

Dee giggles and wraps her arms around him tightly. "Wait," she says. "I have to sneeze."

John nips her shoulder and tickles her until she lets go of him again, the blankets ruffling against her kicking legs.

Sarge struts over to them and settles himself on John's pillow.

"He outranks you," Dee breathes, kissing the side of John's neck.

"Bullshit," John murmurs. "If you had to choose one of us, you'd choose me."

"Maybe," Dee relents. She hugs him tightly. "I'm glad we've got him," she says. "Now there are three Pikes, instead of just two."

"I was very happy with two," John says, kissing Dee's cheeks, nose, eyes.

"I'm still all gross," she says, though she doesn't want him to stop. "I've still got a cold."

He kisses her again. "I don't care."

"I was happy with two Pikes as well," she answers after a moment. She tilts her head so he can kiss her neck. "But I like three better."

"The more the merrier," John agrees, and Dee smiles at him.


	23. Interview

**Title/Prompt:** Interview  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 3774  
**Summary:** AU. John is the single father of four boys. Dee is the single mother of four girls. Until the one day when the lady met this fellow...

**Notes: **I know, I know, more John and Dee fic! AGAIN. This is the first part in a series, which I think will be three or four chapters long. _The chapters will not be posted one-after-the-other._ There will be other, non-related chapters posted throughout. Sorry. It's just the way my brain is working at the moment. The next chapter to be uploaded will be a Richard/Sharon piece. I'll always label this series clearly, though, so you can keep up with my Pike Brady-style AU. :-/

(I don't even know. But I think this definitely needs to be a thing. So here it is!) Huge thanks to lj users isabelquinn, lucida and miss_slipslop for encouraging this crazy idea. :)

And thanks to all of YOU for leaving such lovely reviews!

* * *

John calls home at 5pm, and Jordan answers.

"Yeah?" he says.

"Oh, this is how you're answering the phone now?" John asks.

"Only when I know it's you. What do you want?"

John tries not to encourage his son's sarcasm by laughing. He rests his head in his hands, leaning against his desk. "I left the grocery list behind," he said. "I need you to read it to me."

"Cookies," Jordan says immediately. "And frozen pizza."

"Neither of those things is on the list," John answers, but he writes them down anyway.

* * *

Dee calls home at 5pm, and Mallory answers.

"Hello?"

"It's me," Dee says. "I have to go to the store before I come home, but I forget to check the expiration date on the milk. Can you see if we need more?"

"We need more," Mallory says, without checking. "We're almost out."

"Anything else?" Dee asks, writing _milk_ down alongside the other items on her grocery list.

"How'd your interview go?" Mallory asks. "Have you got the job?"

"I won't find out until next week, honey," Dee says. "But I think it went well."

"Cool," Mallory says. "I'll put the lasagne in the oven in half an hour so it'll be ready when you get home."

* * *

John is irritated when he discovers his perfect record of picking the worst shopping cart possible is yet to be broken.

He clutches the grocery list in one hand and tries to weave in and out of the Friday evening rush as best as he can.

* * *

Dee's feet are killing her. If it were socially acceptable to walk around a supermarket in stockinged feet, she'd be throwing her heels into the cheese display right now.

She stops and rests against her cart, scanning her list and wincing when she realises how much she still needs to get.

The supermarket is busy, and the stress of her job interview hasn't quite worn off yet, despite Dee thinking it went as well as she could have hoped.

She clutches her list in one hand and makes her way around the supermarket, throwing things into the cart. She passes by the aisles full of sugary temptations and wishes she could afford little luxuries like chocolate bars for the girls, or extra bottles of soda.

She bites her lip, not knowing what she'll do if she doesn't get the job.

* * *

John's managed to navigate the entire supermarket without crashing into anyone, right up until he approaches the checkout.

The cart wheels away, almost of its own accord, and bumps into a rather shapely rear.

"Oh shit," John blurts, grabbing hold of his cart and hauling it backwards again. "Sorry."

The woman straightens up and blows her hair out of her face, a frozen pizza in one hand and a bag of frozen peas in the other. A mountain of groceries is already on the check-out counter. "No problem," she says, giving John a wide smile. "These things are hell to drive."

"Tell me about it," John mutters. He glances around and figures he's not going to get into a line that'll get him out of there any faster than this one will.

The woman bends over her cart again and John grips the handle on his grocery cart.

If he has to wait, he may as well wait in the line with the best view.

* * *

Dee is still loading groceries into the trunk of her car when she sees the man who crashed into her with his grocery cart.

She grins at him when he pops the trunk of the car beside her. "Hi," she says.

He grins back at her. "Hello."

When she gets into her car to drive away, she takes a long look at him in her rear-view mirror.

* * *

John stares up at the ceiling, looking at the pattern of shadows created by the streetlight and the oak tree in the front yard.

He's not sure why he can't sleep. The house is quiet. The boys are asleep.

He thinks perhaps it has something to do with the pretty smile he can't seem to get out of his mind.

He rolls over and sighs, closing his eyes and burying his face in his pillow.

_No point in lingering on that daydream,_ he thinks, grinning to himself. _Any woman in her right mind would run a mile from us._

* * *

"Are you looking forward to kindergarten tomorrow?" Dee whispers, tucking the blankets in around Claire.

Claire rubs her eyes tiredly. "Uh-huh," she says eventually.

"Oh, good," Dee says, relieved. She sits on the edge of the bed. "What will you do first? Will you paint a picture for me?"

"Sure," Claire says drowsily. "I'll paint pictures for everyone."

"Sounds fun," Dee whispers. She strokes Claire's hair quietly, watching her fall asleep. She can't help but feel guilty.

"Mom?" Mallory leans against the door-jamb. "Is it okay if Jessi comes by after school tomorrow? She said she'd help me watch Claire and Margo."

"That's fine," Dee answers softly. She bends over to kiss Claire's brow.

Mallory gives her a knowing look when Dee closes the door to Claire's bedroom. "We'll be okay," she says. "We're not going to destroy the house or anything. We've been alone in the house before."

"I know," Dee says.

"It's not like we're mad at you or anything," Mallory adds after a minute. "It's just a job, Mom."

Dee wraps her arms around her eldest daughter. "I know."

* * *

"Wait!"

John manages to stop the elevator doors closing just in time for a woman to rush through in a whirl of papers and soft perfume.

"Oh, thanks," she gasps, trying to tidy the papers into a neat stack in her hands.

John's heart thuds painfully as he realises it's the woman from the grocery store. He manages to stop his first question becoming vocal ("You work here?") and instead settles on the next one. "Which floor?"

"Three." She catches John's eye and straightens in surprise. "Ah," she says, a smile of recognition on her face. "The shopping cart wrangler."

He laughs and hits the button for the third floor. "Shopping cart wrangler," he says. "Elevator serviceman..."

She grins at him and clutches the rail as the elevator surges upwards. "Is that your professional title?"

"No," he says, smiling back at her. "I'm a lawyer." He glances up at the floor numbers above the doors. "What about you?"

"By day, I'm a secretary," she says. The elevator doors open.

"And by night?" John asks.

She grins at him over her shoulder as she steps out onto the third floor, and the doors slide closed.

John curses.

* * *

Dee's first day isn't bad, but by mid morning she's sick of answering the phone and trying to figure out the filing system, which doesn't seem to be in any sort of recognisable order at all.

She wishes she was home. She worries about Claire having to spend all day at kindergarten. She worries about how often Mallory is now going to have to watch her sisters after school. She worries that her new job isn't going to be worth all this extra trouble.

She clucks her tongue and settles herself in her desk chair again, knowing she doesn't have a choice.

Money doesn't grow on trees, after all.

* * *

"Money doesn't grow on trees, Adam," John says tiredly.

"Dad," Adam says, in a very frank voice. "Have you _seen_ this game? It's like, amazing."

John can't keep track of which Nintendo cartridges the boys have and which they don't. "Maybe for Christmas," he finally answers.

Adam's eyes bulge. "_Christmas_?"

"Or," John says, "you can save up and buy it yourself. You've got three brothers to split the cost with you."

"This is true," Adam muses. He taps his finger against his chin. "Can I have an advance on my allowance?"

"Absolutely not," John says. He hands Adam a plate of pizza. "I'm not falling for that one again."

"I did my chores eventually," Adam says, taking his plate through to the living room.

John grins and shakes his head. "Eventually."

* * *

"I don't like you working in Stamford," Margo says, pouting as Dee helps her into her pyjamas.

"I know, honey," Dee says tiredly. "I don't really like working in Stamford, either."

"You said we could watch Care Bears together," Margo adds.

"Maybe this weekend," Dee says. "I _promise_ this weekend." She kisses the top of Margo's head and gives her a little nudge towards the bed.

Claire is already in bed, rubbing her eyes. "Do I have to go to kindergarten again?" she asks.

"Uh-huh," Dee says, feeling a pang in her heart. "Didn't you have fun today, Claire?"

"I had fun," Claire says drowsily. "I want to make cookies tomorrow."

"We'll make cookies together soon," Dee promises. She leans over and kisses Claire, and then Margo, who is still pouting.

"I know it doesn't seem like much fun now, girls," Dee says. "But my new job means we can fix up some of the things around the house, and we can go to the movies sometimes, or maybe take a trip to the beach over the summer."

"The beach?" Margo asks, her voice high with excitement. "Really?"

"Sure," Dee says. She smiles. "It'll be worth it."

Claire is almost asleep. "All day tomorrow?" she asks.

"Kindergarten all day tomorrow," Dee confirms. She rubs her brow, feeling a headache coming on. "I'll try and get home earlier tomorrow, okay?"

* * *

"Can you sign my homework sheet?" Nicky asks, thrusting a crumpled piece of paper at John.

John sips his coffee and takes the paper from his son. "Where'd you keep this?" he asks. "In your back pocket?"

"It's not _ripped_ or anything," Nicky says. "I need you to sign it so my teacher knows I didn't copy other kids at school."

John hands it back to him. "You've got a question wrong."

"Which one?" Nicky asks, rummaging for a pencil in his backpack.

John grins at him. "You've got twenty minutes before I leave for work. You figure it out."

"Aw, man!" Nicky says, trudging back to the living room. "_BYRON!_" he shouts. "I NEED HELP!"

* * *

"Mallory will pick you up today, Claire," Dee says, pulling her jacket on. "Vanessa, don't forget your violin lesson after school."

"I won't," Vanessa says, still looking half-asleep.

"Mal," Dee says, turning to her eldest daughter, "I promised Margo she could have a friend over, but if that sounds like too much, you might want to call Mary Anne Spier or someone to come over and help you out. There's money on the dresser in my bedroom, okay? Don't be afraid to call someone to help if the girls are going to be too much, especially because Vanessa won't be around to help you this afternoon."

"_Mom_," Mallory says, her eyes wide. "Calm down. We'll be fine. Now go, you're going to be late."

Dee kisses each of her daughters hurriedly. "Love you!" she shouts, pulling the door closed behind her.

* * *

John finds himself adjusting his morning routine ever-so-slightly.

He takes a little longer in the lobby, stopping to chat with Stan-the-Man in security, or falling back and waving the elevator on if it looks too crowded.

Waving it on if he can't see the pretty brunette with the smile that makes his gut tighten.

He hasn't seen her again, and he finds himself feeling disappointed.

* * *

Dee falls into a routine she loathes.

She wakes up each morning, hurries to get the girls their breakfast, tries to reassure Claire that _tomorrow_ will be the day they bake cookies. She tries to remind Mallory what she needs to do to get dinner started. She checks Vanessa's homework as she gulps down a cup of sweetened, hot coffee. She packs Margo's backpack at the same time she's pulling her shoes and her jacket on at the door.

And then she gets into the car and she drives to Stamford, guilty and flustered and sure that it's not worth it; that her old job paid so much less but somehow gave so much more.

She's always wiping away tears when she pulls into the office parking garage.

* * *

"Oh," John groans, looking in his briefcase. "You've gotta be kidding me."

He leans back in his chair and sighs, rubbing his face, before he gets up and grabs his jacket from the back of his chair.

"Out for lunch?" Frank asks.

"I've forgotten my lunch," John grumbles. "Looks like I have to go out."

"Hurry back," Frank says around a mouthful of sandwich. "This paperwork won't write itself."

* * *

Dee jabs the button for the elevator irritably.

"The place across the road is nice," Sandra says from her desk, opening a tub of salad. "They do sandwiches and hot food."

"Thanks," Dee says, stepping into the elevator.

She comes face-to-face with the Cart Wrangler. "Hi," she says in surprise.

"Hi." He blinks, and then smiles at her. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"I wasn't aware you were looking for me," Dee says, leaning against the side of the elevator as it starts to travel downward.

"Oh, I wasn't," he blurts. "I mean, I just saw you at the store, and then here, and then I haven't seen you since, so..."

Dee smiles at him. He's turning red, and she thinks he has nice eyes and a nice smile and she finds it cute that he's so flustered.

"I'm Dee," she says, holding her hand out.

"John." He shakes his head. "And I'm usually better at this."

She laughs.

* * *

Dee's forgotten her lunch as well, and John doesn't want to go back upstairs to a stack of boring paperwork.

"Join me?" he asks, motioning to the café across the street and hoping he doesn't sound too desperate.

She hesitates, but she says, "Okay."

She seems as surprised as he does.

They sit across from one another and it feels awkward and date-like.

"So," John says, drumming his fingers on the table. "Secretary by day..."

She smiles. "My other identity is a secret one."

He grins. "I bet I could guess."

"Go on, then."

"Crime-fighter. Cab-driver. Chef at the best restaurant in town."

"All those things and more," Dee says, smiling at him again. "I'm a mom."

_Oh,_ he thinks, and his heart skips a beat. _I think I'm in trouble here._

* * *

John doesn't even flinch, which makes Dee's heart beat a little faster.

If anything, he looks pleased.

(She's so used to the panicked looks of men trying to escape a woman with four daughters at this point, it's a surprise to find someone different.)

"I have four girls," she tells him.

He stares back at her for a minute, and his next smile is cautious. "Really?"

He sounds a little disbelieving, and it makes her angry.

"Really," she says, lifting her chin. "Four beautiful girls."

"No," John says quickly, holding his hand up. "I'm not – don't... I mean, I'm not..." He breaks off and shakes his head. "I have four boys."

Dee blinks at him.

He sighs. "I really do know how to talk better than this, you know."

* * *

Their plates are empty and John's as determined as ever to stretch his lunch hour out as far as he possibly can.

Photos are on the table. Bent, wallet-sized, slightly-ragged-at-the-edges photos.

"They look exactly like you!" Dee exclaims, leaning over the photo of John's boys. "All four of them."

"Nicky's getting more like me as he gets older," John says. "When he was born, he was the image of his mother."

Dee glances up at him.

"Divorced," John says, holding up his left hand and showing her his bare finger. "Almost seven years ago."

She bites her lip and glances at the photo again. "They must have been young."

"Nick was..." John trails off and thinks for a minute. "She left just before his first birthday. It took another year or so for us to get things sorted out."

He swallows. He doesn't like talking about his divorce. But there are some things you have to tell a woman if you want her to keep smiling at you over meals and coffee.

"I'm divorced too," Dee says. "He left when I was pregnant with Claire."

John's fists tighten slightly and he glances down at the photo of Dee's youngest. "That must have been difficult."

Dee sips her coffee and holds his gaze. "It was."

* * *

Dee has to get back to work.

"Lunch tomorrow?" John asks.

He's so hopeful she doesn't have the heart to say no.

That, and she thinks she likes him.

"Sure," she says.

* * *

"Come on, Dad," Adam says, his thumb smacking the Nintendo controller obsessively. "This is bad even by your standards."

Nicky leans against John's legs. "Can I take your place?"

John hands him the controller and Nicky leans back against his father's shins and starts trying to repair the damage John has already caused to his character in the game.

John's mind isn't on video games.

(Truth be told, it rarely is.)

It's on Dee.

* * *

John comes by her desk, which pleases her and flusters her all at once.

They take the same table at the café across the road.

"Still saving the universe?" John asks.

"Last night I put the head back on a Barbie, and I watched a violin recital and a skit about the Queen of Never Never."

"Impressive," John says. "I blew up a space station."

Dee laughs and rolls her eyes. "Boys."

John grins back at her.

They both turn serious after a few minutes. Dee suddenly realises she likes him – a lot – and if she likes him, she needs to know everything.

Because of the girls, and because of... Well, because of everything.

* * *

It's like a job interview.

John asks her questions and she asks him questions, and he's unbelievably relieved that she seems to be as earnest and honest as he's trying to be.

He knows it won't work, otherwise. And damn, he wants this one to work.

They get the serious questions out of the way first.

"I've got full custody," Johns says. "I don't know where my ex-wife is these days. We haven't spoken in years. I doubt she'll ever come back. It wouldn't be a good thing if she did."

"I've got full custody as well," Dee says. "Mallory's the only one with clear memories of her father. Vanessa can remember a few things. I don't think Margo can remember him at all. She never asks about him. And of course, Claire has never known anything different to the situation we have now."

She looks down at the table. "I've stopped hoping he'll come back."

John watches her quietly for a moment. "My boys don't remember anything different, either," he says. "It's just been us. For a long time." He traces his thumb around the outside of his plate, feeling familiar stirrings of guilt in his stomach. "I've done the best I can."

"Me too," Dee says softly.

He can't ever remember a time he found such balanced understanding in someone.

* * *

"Moozie!"

"Hey!" Dee scoops Claire up and hugs her tightly. "Did you have a good day?"

"We made brownies!" Claire says, and Dee can smell the thick, chocolatey smell in the air and on Claire's breath.

"Mm," Dee says approvingly. "Did you save some for me?"

"_Some_," Claire says cautiously.

Dee laughs and puts her down.

Vanessa eyes her cautiously. "You're in a good mood."

"I'm always in a good mood," Dee says, pretending to be insulted.

"Not like this," Mallory says, folding her arms. "Did you get promoted?"

"Not yet," Dee says, shrugging out of her jacket. "I'm working on it."

"Will that mean _two_ beach trips?" Margo asks hopefully.

Dee smiles at her. "If I can manage it."

Margo smiles back.

Dee shrugs and leads her daughters into the living room. "I had a good day," she says. "I had an interview, I guess. For something different."

"How'd you do?" Mallory asks curiously.

"I aced it," Dee says. She sinks onto the couch and smiles at her girls. "Today was good," she says. "Now come here, all of you, and tell me how your day went."

* * *

"Can we order a pizza?"

John lets the door swing closed and puts his briefcase down. "Hello to you too," he says to Jordan.

"Hi," Jordan says impatiently. "We're hungry. Also, how was your day?"

John laughs. "It was good. No pizza. We need to have some vegetables."

"Ugh." Jordan clutches his stomach. "Come on, Dad."

"We can't _live_ on pizza," John says, hanging up his jacket.

"We totally can," Adam says, emerging from the living room.

John sighs. "Okay. Pizza it is."

Jordan obviously hadn't believed his father would give in. His eyes bulge. "Really?"

"Really," John says.

"Before he changes his mind!" Adam hisses.

Jordan disappears into the kitchen to find the menus.

"Why are you in such a good mood?" Byron asks. He and Nicky have baseball gloves on their hands.

John shrugs. "I had an interview today."

"For a different job?" Byron asks.

John thinks for a moment. "I guess so."

"Will you hit us some fly balls?" Nicky asks.

"How was it?" Adam asks. "The interview?"

"Go get a bat," John says to Nicky, pulling his tie off. Then he grins. "The interview? Aced it."


	24. Sunset

**Title/Prompt:** Sunset  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG  
**Word count:** 3971  
**Summary:** Sharon and Richard have one last summer together before she leaves for college in California.

******Notes: **This is not part of the Pike Pack series, which was introduced in the last chapter. I'm sorry I'll be interrupting it with other pieces, but that's the way my brain is. D: I'll label the next instalment clearly.

Thanks to isabelquinn and luxken27 for beta'ing this one for me. This was written as a gift fic for lj user imamaryanne to repay her for the beautiful ficlet she gave me for fandom_stocking.

I'd also like to promise that I won't write parent fic forever ;p There's some fic with Mary Anne and Dawn swimming around in my head at the moment, as well as a Ben Hobart plot bunny that won't seem to quiet down.

* * *

**68 Days**

Sharon scooped up a handful of gravel from the driveway before she ran around the side of the house, keeping low and close to the shadows cast by the hedge and the trees along the fence.

Richard's shade was down, but she could see his bedroom light showing around the edges. The pink sky was reflected against the window.

She chose a pebble from her palm and tossed it carefully. It bounced off the side of the house, just beside his window. She tossed another one and it hit the glass.

Richard's shade scrolled up and he pushed the window open. "Hello, Juliet," he said in surprise.

She rolled her eyes. "Just get down here, Romeo."

He grinned and pulled the window closed again.

Sharon waited for him, still trembling slightly with adrenaline and anger.

Dusk was settling. She could hear crickets, and the hedge behind her seemed full of sparrows all trying to find a place to roost for the night. The sunset was starting to turn from pink to a lighter yellow at the edges, and stars were already beginning to show high above.

"Sharon?"

"Over here."

She could see Richard in the thinning light, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slightly bent against the cool evening air. "You know," he said, smiling at her as he approached, "you can always use the front door."

She felt tears start to well up against her will. She bit her lip and forced them back. "I talked with them," she said, and her voice cracked.

Richard's smile faded, and his last few steps were rapid. "You did?"

Sharon rubbed the tears away before they could fall, and felt Richard's arms wrap around her.

"It's not like I have a choice anyway," Sharon said in a small voice. "If I want to go to college, it's not like I can rely on my grades."

"You're clever," Richard said, his voice sharp. "You're incredibly clever."

"I know," she said irritably, waving him away. "I know most things well enough, I suppose. But my brain just doesn't work the right way for exams, Richard. I bombed."

She wiped her eyes again, cursing herself for not being more organised throughout the year. She'd spent all of senior year practically joined at the hip to Richard, his index cards and neat pages of organised notes in front of her almost as often as they were in front of him.

If only she'd read them.

Or, even better, if only she had been organised enough to make her _own_ study notes.

"What are we going to _do_?" she asked desperately, leaning against Richard again.

He hugged her. "We'll think of something."

"Maybe I just won't go to college," she said miserably. "Or maybe I can find somewhere closer to here that will take me, you know? Despite my grades."

She felt Richard's breath against the top of her head and she closed her eyes.

"I think we'll need a genuine miracle for that to happen," he murmured.

She snorted and shoved him. "Shut up."

He smiled at her and took her hand. "Do you want to come in?"

She shook her head and rubbed at her tear-streaked face. "Come for a walk with me."

"Now?" Richard asked.

"Please?" She leaned against him a little and pressed a kiss to the bottom of his chin. She gave him a wobbly smile. "Soon we won't be able to walk anywhere together."

"Don't say that," he said desperately. "We'll think of a solution, Sharon."

She kissed him again, rising up on her toes to meet him. The crickets had overwhelmed the sound of the sparrows and the night air seemed filled with them.

The sun had finally slipped below the horizon, officially ending another day of the last summer she knew she'd be sharing with Richard.

* * *

**52 Days**

Richard's father's car was wide and bulky and black. And boring.

The only reason Sharon liked it was because of the backseat, which offered enough room for her and Richard to lie side-by-side. (Cramped, but comfortable.)

Richard had parked out near the end of Burnt Hill Road, under the shade of an oak tree. The windows were down and the afternoon was clear and warm. Richard's arm was around Sharon, her head against his chest.

She would have been utterly happy if it weren't for the pressing issue of college, which was constantly on her mind.

"I had another argument with my parents this morning," she said miserably.

Richard's thumb moved against her upper arm.

"They _refuse_ to try and work out any other solution," she continued, furrowing her brow. "It's completely unfair."

Richard sighed, and Sharon could picture his face, creased with concentration and worry.

"If I were a boy, everything would be easier," she said suddenly. "Boys get their own way all the time."

"We do not," Richard said immediately. His arms tightened around her. "I'm glad you're not a boy."

She laughed. "Me too, I suppose." She tightened her own hold on him in response, and tilted her head up to kiss him. "I just don't want this summer to end."

"In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me lay an invincible summer."

Sharon frowned. "What?"

Richard breathed an exasperated sigh against her mouth. "Didn't you read _anything_ in high school?"

She grinned. "The letters you wrote."

He kissed her again.

"What does that mean, anyway?" she asked dreamily, resting her head back against his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her head. "The summer can last forever."

"I wish," she sighed. She closed her eyes. "This is our last summer together, ever."

"You're not planning on coming back at all?" he asked, pressing kisses against her hair.

"Of course I am," she said. "But who knows what can happen in a year..."

"Nothing will happen to us," Richard said confidently.

She lifted her head and smiled at him. "I know."

He kissed her again. "I'll indulge your melancholy if you promise me you won't fall in love with anyone else."

"I promise," she said immediately. She swiped an X over her heart. "You won't fall in love with someone else, will you?"

"Never." He crossed his own heart and grinned at her.

"My father says I shouldn't pin all my hopes on my high-school sweetheart."

Richard wrinkled his nose. "You never listen to your father."

She grinned. "I know. But you said you'd indulge me." She put her head against his chest again. "I have a lot of complaints to list yet."

Richard laced his fingers through hers. "Complain away," he said. "I'm listening."

She closed her eyes. "You're the only one who _does_ listen to me, Richie."

* * *

**51 Days**

"Sharon, _enough_."

Sharon flinched at the tone in her father's voice.

"You're not to disappear with that boy again," her mother added. "We've had enough, Sharon. It's time for you to start growing up."

It was only the ridiculousness of their argument which caused Sharon to feel lost for words. She floundered for a minute, her mind racing, trying to come up with an appropriate response.

"California is just what you need," her father said, frowning at her over the top of his glasses. "You've got entirely too much freedom here. It's time you started acting like a young lady; like the young lady you're _supposed_ to be."

Sharon glared at him. "Maybe you should just get a store mannequin, Dad," she said furiously. "Then you can position her and dress her however you like, keeping her here all day long –"

"_Sharon_," her mother gasped.

Sharon didn't stay to hear more. She slammed the door on her way out and started to run, hoping they were watching.

She headed straight for Richard's.

* * *

Sharon threw a whole handful of gravel at Richard's window.

He appeared almost immediately, looking alarmed. "You know," he called down to her, "when Romeo approached by Juliet's window, he had the grace to not throw any stones at her."

"Well I'm not Romeo," Sharon snapped. "And you're not Juliet." Tears streaked her face.

Richard blinked at her, taking in her dishevelled appearance. "I'm coming down," he said softly. "Wait there."

"I don't want to go," she sobbed against Richard's shoulder. "And I don't want to stay here."

He clung to her tightly, his arms wrapped around her. "It will be all right," he promised. "They're wrong about us, Sharon. We'll make it."

She curled her fingers into his shirt. "They keep s-saying things like it's time for me to grow up..." She choked in her haste to have him understand. "They're going to try _e-everything_ to keep us apart."

"Let them try," Richard said furiously, his voice against her ear. "You and I both know they won't win."

"I just want to get out of here," she said, looking up at him with streaming eyes. "Let's get out of here, Richie, let's just run away..."

His face fell. He cupped her face with his palm. "And do what, exactly?" he asked softly. "We don't have any money, Sharon –"

"I have money!" she interrupted.

Richard smiled patiently. "Enough money for somewhere to live? To get us from A to B?"

"Don't start with the algebra," she muttered. She slumped, knowing he was right, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I can't stay here," she said quietly. "And I don't want to go to California. I'm scared. I'm going to _hate_ it there."

"I know," he said sympathetically. His fingers traced through her hair. "Come on," he said. "Let's go for a walk."

The sun was sinking against a canvas of pink and purple. Sharon and Richard settled themselves in the long grass down by the brook and waited for the stars to come out.

"Won't your parents be waiting for you at home?" Richard asked after a moment.

"I don't care," Sharon muttered. "Let them wait. They're sending me away. They have to get used to being without me."

Richard hugged her to him.

* * *

**31 Days**

"It's a _month_," Sharon said miserably. "How can time possibly be moving so fast?"

"I don't know," Richard replied quietly.

They were lying on the backseat of his father's car again, in the shade of the oak. The afternoon was warm and still, the summer air heavy with the promise of evening thunderstorms.

Sharon propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at Richard, shifting herself delicately so he didn't roll off and fall to the floor. "It's almost too hot to be this close."

"No it isn't," he murmured, his eyes closed.

She smirked. "If my parents knew where I was right now..."

"It isn't _me_ who would receive the punishment," Richard answered smugly. "Besides," he added, "I'm nothing to fear. Your parents really shouldn't worry so much about you being in my company."

She kissed him, sliding her body half over him. "I'm not so sure," she whispered hotly against his mouth. "You don't kiss like a nice boy, Richie."

He laughed and pushed her lightly. "And how many boys have you kissed, other than me?"

"Oh, I can tell," Sharon dismissed. She leaned over and kissed him again. "I wish I could take you to California with me," she whispered. "Do you think you'd fit into my suitcase?"

"I fear I wouldn't," Richard sighed, resting his head back against the seat. He ran his hand down her arm and clasped her fingers in his. "Have your parents answered your questions about visits home, yet?"

"Not yet," Sharon said, scowling. "I'm scared they're just going to send me away and not give me any means to come home again until college is over with."

"They can't keep you there like that," Richard assured her.

She ran her hand through her hair. "I bet they can. I bet they'll _try._"

Richard gazed up at her for a minute. "You know," he said quietly, "there's always been a way for you to stay here in Stoneybrook."

Her eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it seems the main reason they're sending you away is because of me," Richard said. "If you truly wanted to stay here, you could just..." He trailed off.

"Tell them we're _over_?" Sharon asked in amazement. She blinked, and frowned at him. "No," she said immediately. "We have to sneak around enough as it is."

"_That's_ your first reason for rejecting that course of action?" Richard asked, pretending to be hurt. "That we have to sneak around? Not, 'I can't live without you, Richie, even if it's a only a performance,' or something like that?"

She laughed, and he started to tickle her. She shrieked and squirmed around, kicking her legs against the door of the car, breathless and red-faced, her skin damp with sweat in the summer air.

"Stop," she pleaded, fisting her hands in his shirt. She gasped for breath. "Stop, stop! Mercy!" She screeched against his shoulder and collapsed into giggles beneath him, trapped between the backseat and the weight of Richard's body.

* * *

**20 Days**

"I don't want to go home yet," Sharon whispered in Richard's ear. "Let's drive somewhere else."

"Where?" he asked, brushing his lips against her cheek.

"Anywhere. I don't care. Just don't take me home yet."

She leaned against his arm as he drove across town. There was a crowd of kids in Brenner Field, playing softball. Sharon could hear them shouting and laughing as they drove past, windows down, the cool evening air blowing in across her skin.

The fairground was lit up against the setting sun, the Ferris Wheel turning slowly. Sharon breathed in deeply as they drove past, slowing to let families cross the road. The air smelled of popcorn and the ocean.

"Let's go to the beach," she said suddenly.

"The beach?"

"I have to get used to it, if I'm going to _California_," she said dramatically.

Richard smiled and steered the car onto the road that led down to the coast. It was busier on this side of town. The day had been long and hot. People were wandering around, tanned (or unfortunately sunburned) and happy, savouring cardboard cups of ice-cream or sticks of cotton candy from the fair.

They kicked their shoes off in the car, and Richard chased her down to the sand. She screamed when he grabbed her waist and threatened to throw her into the waves.

"Don't," she said, laughing, upside down over his shoulder. "I'll never forgive you! _Never._"

He pretended to drop her and she screamed so loud it hurt.

He fell with her onto the sand and they were both laughing.

And then, suddenly, she started to cry. She pressed her face against his shoulder and sobbed.

"I don't want to leave," she said. "I don't want to go. I love you and I don't want to go."

* * *

**10 Days**

Sharon and Richard sat side by side in the car, watching water pour down the windshield. Thunder rumbled overhead, and the smell of hot asphalt and wet grass was thick in the air.

"You should see my bedroom," Sharon said quietly, watching the water pour down the glass. "I've got clothes everywhere. My mom keeps telling me to pack, but there are still ten whole days..." She trailed off and drew in a shuddery breath that almost felt like a sob.

Richard took her hand.

"I keep trying to think of a way out," she admitted softly. Her eyes were wide, though she wasn't taking notice of anything.

The noise of the rain hammering down on the car meant she had to raise her voice. "Dad keeps telling me I have too much freedom here. I don't know how he expects me to 'straighten up' when I'm thousands of miles away from him and his... His..." She sobbed for real, and Richard pulled her across the seat to lean against his shoulder.

"I'll write," he whispered. "All the time. I promise."

She nodded and wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. After a moment she swung herself on top of him, her knees either side of his hips.

He breathed out slowly against her cheek when she kissed him.

"Tell me what you'll write to me," she whispered.

"Every tiny detail of my day," he said, smiling slowly against her mouth. "I'll give you copies of my notes from class."

"Just like in high school," she murmured approvingly.

He laughed and nodded. "Just like that, yes."

"Who's going to help me when I lose my books?" she asked softly. "What will I do when I leave my history notes on the shelf in the library and take a Shakespeare anthology to history class with me?"

"You can't possibly do that again," Richard murmured. "Learn from your mistakes, Sharon."

She sagged against him and gave a helpless laugh. "I'll be lost without you."

"I'll be just as lost without you," he said.

"Why does everything have to change so much?" Sharon asked, and her voice cracked. "We're only _teenagers,_ we shouldn't have to worry about these things." She clung to him tightly. "Life shouldn't be so hard when you're this young."

"The lament of every teenager ever," Richard murmured. He buried his hands in her hair and kissed her.

"You know," Sharon breathed, wriggling closer to him, "if my parents have their way, I won't be back here until after college. The next time I see you, we could be in our _twenties._"

"The horror." Richard mock-gasped.

Sharon grinned and kissed him again, her hands either side of his face. "I bet you'll be wearing glasses by then."

"Most likely," he groaned. "I bet you'll have cut off all your hair."

"Never!" she gasped.

He laughed and kissed her again. "You'll be home next summer," he whispered. "Your parents can't keep you away forever. They'll miss you almost as much as I will."

"They can afford to visit me in California," Sharon answered. "You can't."

"I'll sell my father's car," Richard said with a sly smile.

Sharon tipped her head back and laughed. "How much do you think you'd get?" she asked. "It's a piece of junk!"

"I like it," he said, his hands circling her waist. "I think you do, too."

"No I don't," she denied, but she was smiling. She looked around the backseat and leaned over to pluck an old mail sack off the floor. "What if he wants to sabotage us?" she asked. "What if he brings our relationship to a close through his power at the post office?" Her eyes widened dramatically.

"What if the sky falls?" Richard asked, matching her expression of horror.

"What if the world really is _flat_?" she asked.

He laughed and fell back against the seat. "Stop it."

She pulled the rope out of the neck of the mail sack.

"Don't do that," Richard groaned. "He'll make me poke it back through the holes."

"Too late," she sang softly. She circled his wrists with the rope and painstakingly knotted it.

"You're terrible with knots," Richard commented.

"We can't all be Boy Scouts," she answered, lifting his wrists and wriggling into the new, tight circle of his arms. "There," she breathed in satisfaction, pressing kisses against his face. "Now we'll have to travel everywhere together. I believe you'll have to come to California with me, Richard."

"Very clever," he murmured against her neck. "Nobody could possibly foil this plan."

* * *

**One**

The sun seemed to be setting too fast, casting the yard into shadows. Richard and Sharon stood together at the side of the house, clinging to one another tightly.

"They're _wrong_," she gasped desperately, blinking tears away so she could see his face properly.

"I know," Richard whispered. His hands cupped her face, his mouth pressed firmly against hers. "I know, Sharon, I know." He kissed her again.

Again.

"They don't understand," she sobbed. "Why won't they just let us be together? Why do they have to send me away? I don't want to go; I don't want to go..."

"Listen," Richard whispered desperately. "They won't win. They _won't._ We both know we're supposed to be together."

She nodded, clutching his hands to her face.

"They can try and force us apart," he said, "but they won't win. Right?"

"Right," she gasped.

"Sharon!"

She winced and pushed against Richard, forcing him closer to the fence, away from the view of the house.

Her father's voice rang out across the yard again. "Sharon _Porter_!"

"He's last-naming me," she whispered, her voice hitching in an attempt at humour.

Richard smiled. "Stay another minute."

She leaned against him, pressing her face into his chest, her arms tight around his waist. "I love you," she moaned. "Promise me you'll write, and you'll tell me all about college..."

"I will," he vowed. "You'll write as well, won't you?"

"All the time," she whispered, pressing kisses against his mouth between words. "All the time."

"We'll both be so busy," he said, his voice hushed as Sharon's father shouted again. "But we'll find time to keep in touch."

"Always," she agreed, nodding her head rapidly.

Richard smiled again, sadly. "California's the luckiest state in the whole country," he said. "Don't forget Connecticut had you first."

She laughed helplessly; bitterly. She clung to him tightly.

"Sharon, if you're out there with that Spier boy, you'll be grounded until Christmas!" her father roared. "Get in the house, now!"

Richard dragged her back into the shadow cast by the house next door.

Night was starting to sweep in. Everything was blue and purple.

"I wish he would ground me," Sharon whispered. "It's probably the only way I'll be able to stay here."

Richard kissed her properly then, his arms around her, one hand cupping her tear-streaked face. She pressed herself against him, rising up on her toes, her arms around his shoulders.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too, Richie." Her voice caught. She forced herself to let go of him. "I'll come back as soon as I can."

She couldn't stand to actually say goodbye. She turned and fled back across the lawn, rubbing tears from her eyes, her throat aching.

She turned back when she reached the door, searching for him in the evening light.

He stood in the yard, in the deepening shadows cast by the setting sun, watching her sadly.

She tore her eyes from him and went back into the house.


	25. Writer's Choice: Home

**Title/Prompt:** Writer's Choice: Home  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 1,088  
**Summary:** Ben Hobart hates that it's January and there's snow on the ground.

******Notes: **Set against a verse from Dorothea Mackellar's poem, _My Country._ Which is just so _Australia_ to me.

And, if things go to plan, the next chapter should be more Pike-AU :) I'll make sure it's labelled clearly.

Thank you, as always, to my invaluable betas, this time isabelquinn and miss_slipslop. And thank you to everyone leaving reviews! I really appreciate it. :)

* * *

_I love a sunburnt country._

Connecticut is white, and Ben thinks it's bulldust that it's _January_ and there's all this _snow_ on the ground. Snow that's wet and cold and doesn't even hold together enough to make proper snowballs or anything – it just slops through his fingers like a poorly-made slush puppie.

This isn't what he signed up for. This isn't what he was told snow would be like.

He stands in the yard, knee deep in _slush_, and thinks about home. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine the smell of hot dry grass, dust, shimmering tar and far-off rain. He tires to conjure up swarms of invisible cicadas and cockatoos.

He kicks a wet spray of snow in frustration and slips and slides his way back to the house.

* * *

_A land of sweeping plains._

"There's not even any room to play cricket!" Johnny whines, gazing out into the backyard. "Da-_ad,_ you said the yard here would be _bigger _than our old one."

"There's plenty of room to play cricket," Mum says. "The backyard is huge, you guys."

"We used to have a whole _paddock_," Ben says dramatically, backing Johnny up. "Anyway, if we play with six-and-out, we'll be out every ball."

"Please don't hit any sixes," Mum says. "The neighbours are too close. I don't want any broken windows, okay?"

Ben folds his arms and adds another _con_ to his list of pros and cons for The New House in Nowhere, Connecticut.

* * *

_Of ragged mountain ranges._

The mountains here are different. (They're _barely_ mountains at all.)

Ben wants blues and greys and silvers, but here they're all green and brown and white. They don't blur into the horizon in a sweep of purple and blue.

He's used to mountains that roll away, on and on and on until you can't tell what's mountain and what's sky; it's all hazed together like smoke.

He doesn't like looking up, expecting a rise of blue-purple, only to see snow.

More snow. Ugh.

* * *

_Of droughts and flooding rains._

It's January. January means the beach, and backyard cricket and fishing trips to the river for the day.

January means Australia Day.

January means bushfires and heat and drought. Flies. Cows in dusty paddocks and sheep with short fleece.

January means Queensland is flooded and Mum is always on the phone to Nan and Pa, asking if they're all right.

"You want to build another snowman?" Johnny asks Ben gloomily.

"No," Ben mutters. "I'm sick of snow."

* * *

_I love her far horizons._

The mountains here are all crammed in around him and he can barely see the sky, for God's sake. How do people even breathe here?

Don't they feel like everything is closing in? Don't they realise the sky is really, really, really bloody wide? Don't they realise they could have it stretching right from horizon to horizon instead of being cut off, like, right there?

Dad says the mountains are actually miles away, but Ben doesn't think he knows what he's talking about.

Everything else Dad has said about this place has been wrong so far.

* * *

_I love her jewel sea._

School starts, and not only is it somehow _not_ the start of the school year here, but it's not even been a proper holiday for anyone.

There are no sunburnt kids with salt-rough skin or hair. There are no stories about Christmas barbecues or snakes in the chook yard on Boxing Day.

Ben doesn't think he's going to be able to stand this.

The school is different here – everything is different here – and all he can think about is how it's _January_ and he shouldn't already be behind in his classes.

He should still be on holidays – Christmas holidays; summer holidays. He should be on the beach with his friends, throwing tennis balls into the waves for Tom's dog, or throwing seaweed at girls or playing _cricket._

Ben can't believe a January like this one actually exists.

* * *

_Her beauty and her terror._

At some point between realising that this will be the first January of his life where he hasn't been to the beach, and that he hasn't seen a patch of blue sky since leaving Australia, Ben notices Mallory.

Maybe he feels a slight affinity toward her because of the red hair.

Or maybe he just has to realise that there are likely to be _some_ pros added to the list regarding Living in Nowhere, Connecticut.

He keeps her entertained with stories about snakes and sharks. (Some of them are only embellished a little.)

"No wonder you moved here," she says, looking sick when Ben describes how many surfers he knows with limbs missing. "Australia sounds really dangerous."

"I haven't even gotten onto the spiders yet," Ben says.

His heart sinks when he realises sharks and snakes and spiders are no longer things he needs to worry about so much.

He's formed habits – check your boots for redbacks, check behind the bathroom towels for huntsmen and geckos, keep the shovel out in case Dad needs it for snakes...

These habits aren't ones he needs anymore.

That kind of sucks.

* * *

_The wide brown land for me._

The snow eventually melts. Eventually.

And it's brown for a while, before the mud is replaced with grass, and Ben thinks that maybe he's finally found a hint of Australia in Connecticut after all.

"It'd still be pretty brown back home, right Mum?" Ben asks one afternoon, gesturing to the mud-splattered front lawn. "I mean, pretty dry?"

"I guess so," Mum says. "Why?"

Ben shrugs.

But he's not feeling so bad about Connecticut now. He supposes he's getting used to it. Knowing that right now, all the way over on the other side of the world, his old front lawn is probably brown and crisp and dusty, waiting for autumn to rain upon it.

Here, the yard is brown and soft and muddy, waiting for spring to shine upon it.

He can feel a little overlap between both of his worlds, and he likes it. He feels satisfied with his place, suddenly.

He's not sure it'll last.

But his comparisons aren't always fair. Connecticut is bound to win at some things. (Even if it loses most of the time.) He doesn't suppose he can hold a grudge for too much longer anyway.

Still. Australia will always be home.

Even if it is full of things that could kill you.


	26. Dinner

**Title/Prompt:** Pike Pack II / Dinner  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 7765  
**Summary:** Dee and John are both treading carefully, but it's time to take their relationship to the next level.

******Notes: **The second instalment of 'The Pike Pack' - if you missed the first one, take a look at Chapter 23, 'Interview'. This is an AU which takes inspiration from 'The Brady Bunch'. Er... yeah.

Thank you to my beautiful betas, isabelquinn and lucida, both on livejournal. Extra thanks to lucida for being the one to introduce me to the thought that John Pike is ticklish.

Thanks to everyone leaving reviews! Really sorry I'm so terrible at responding to them, but please know they're appreciated!

* * *

"Heeyyy-_hey_ baby!" John kicks Nicky's bedroom door open, singing loudly to the song playing on the radio. "I wanna _know-oh-oh..._"

"Nooo," Nicky moans, wriggling down under his blankets. "Five more minutes!"

"School," John says, tugging the blankets down. "No more tardy notes, Nick. Come on." He tugs at his youngest son, hauling him gently out of bed.

The radio alarm blares on in Jordan's room.

_I wanna know-oh-oh_

_If you'll be my girl._

* * *

"She's so pretty, she's so fine – I'm gonna make her mine, all mine!" Dee pushes the door open to Mallory and Vanessa's room.

"Up!" she cries. "Vanessa, I don't want you late to school again."

Vanessa rolls over and mumbles something into her pillow.

Mallory half-heartedly throws her own pillow at her mother. "Five more minutes?"

"Up!" Dee cries again, pulling the curtains open. "Please, girls. We've got to get better at this early mornings thing."

* * *

"Let me check your homework." John puts his coffee mug in the dishwasher and holds his hand toward Nicky.

Nicky passes him a crumpled sheet of paper. "Can I tie your tie?"

John drapes it around Nicky's shoulders. "Be my guest."

Nicky heads for the mirror in the living room, his tongue between his teeth in a pre-emptive move of concentration.

John sits at the kitchen table and checks over Nicky's homework. "Jordan, don't forget your piano lesson."

"Nope," Jordan says, his mouth full of poptart. "I won't forget."

"And that means you two have to organise dinner tonight," John says, motioning to Adam and Byron, his eyes running over Nicky's careful handwriting.

"Pizza," they chorus.

"No take-out!" John orders sternly. "Something with vegetables, _please._"

"Check the freezer," Adam mutters to Byron.

"There's no frozen pizza, either," John says, allowing himself to feel smug for a moment. "We're eating healthy tonight."

"Done!" Nicky cries, appearing with John's tie knotted around his neck.

"Thank you, kind sir," John says, signing Nicky's homework sheet and handing it back to him. He takes his tie and slips it over his head. "I've gotta go, you guys. Have a good day. Don't be late, Nick."

"Bye," his sons chorus.

* * *

"Violin lesson tonight, Vanessa."

"I know," Vanessa sighs, her chin in her palm, her elbow on the table. "I haven't forgotten."

"Can we make cookies tonight?" Claire asks, fidgeting as Dee combs her hair.

"Um..." Dee glances to the clock. "I don't know, honey. We'll see."

"I've got to stay late at school," Mallory says, nibbling the corner of her toast. "I've got a play rehearsal tonight."

Dee had forgotten, and she has a moment of panic.

Margo beats her to remembering the evening's arrangements. "Kristy!" she cries excitedly.

"That's right," Dee breathes, overwhelmed with relief. She taps Claire's shoulder. "Remember, Claire, Kristy is picking you up today. All right?"

"Okay," Claire answers.

Dee glances at the clock again. "I'm going to be late," she says, hating that she can't ever seem to find enough time in the mornings. She kisses the top of Claire's head. "You girls be good for Kristy. And remember to tell her my number is on the fridge, okay? And that I'll be home in time for dinner."

"Okay," Margo answers distractedly. She turns to Claire. "Maybe Kristy will make cookies with us."

Dee tries not to feel too guilty as Claire cheers. "Bye girls!" she calls from the front door. "Love you!"

* * *

John reties his tie after pulling his car into the parking garage at work, grinning as Nicky's handiwork falls apart in his hands.

* * *

Dee grips the steering wheel of her car and draws in a deep, shaky breath, trying to gain the courage to start another day; to stick to a routine she still finds so draining and unrewarding.

She puts her hands to her face and lets herself fall apart for a minute.

* * *

"It hurts my feelings that you never want to eat lunch with me anymore," Frank says to John. He crunches into an apple.

"You're not as pretty as Dee," John says, pulling his jacket on. "And her table manners are better."

Frank grins at him. "Don't take a long lunch. We've got stuff to do."

"Yeah, yeah." John waves as he heads for the elevator. "I'll be back on time."

* * *

"How are the boys?" Dee asks, tearing the corner off her sandwich.

She and John are sitting on a bench in the park just down from their office block. The sun is warm, but the wind has a definite sharpness to it. They both have their jackets on.

"Fine," John answers, polishing his apple against his thigh. "Nicky was on time today – I hope – and Jordan's got a piano lesson." He grins at her. "Nothing unusual. And the girls?"

Dee picks at her sandwich and shrugs. "Okay, I think." She can feel another swirl of guilt in her stomach. "I feel like I've hardly seen them, lately. Mallory's writing this play, you know... And Claire just misses being home with me so much..." She bites her lip, suddenly feeling tears burning at the back of her eyes. She blinks rapidly and hopes she'll be able to blame the cold wind if John notices how bright her eyes are.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

"Fine," she answers. She looks down at her sandwich again, not sure if she's managed to fool him or not.

* * *

John isn't fooled. He sits still for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to reassure her. Unsure if it will somehow just make things worse.

"It gets easier," he says after a moment. He keeps his eyes on her, watching tendrils of her dark hair wisp against her face in the wind. She glances at him for a moment, but looks away again.

"It does," he insists. "The race to get ready in the mornings, and trying to find enough energy for everything in the evenings... It all gets easier, Dee."

He wishes he could show her – prove to her, somehow, that soon she'll have everything sorted out; that the girls will settle into their new routine as well; that once she can build up her savings she'll be able to afford little vacations and luxuries that will make the longer hours worth it.

He clears his throat. He wants to take her hand, but it all seems too intimate and _together_, and he isn't sure either of them is ready for that. "Don't forget the girls are still adjusting, too," he says. "They've got a new routine to get used to as well. You'll all get better at it. And it will be worth it, Dee. I promise."

Dee nods, and hastily swipes a tear away. "I know. I'm just used to working different hours... To having more time with them..."

"I know," John says sympathetically.

She sniffs, keeping her face turned slightly away from him. "How'd you do it?" she asks softly. "The boys were so young when... When you were alone..."

He smiles, but he can feel old aches stir within him. "My family helped out a lot," he says quietly. "My parents could watch the kids a lot of the time. And when they couldn't – well, babysitters. Childcare. Lots of promises I couldn't keep..." He rubs his hand over his face, remembering the dreadful moments of guilt and loss. "It was awful," he admits. "I missed a lot. I missed recitals and achievements... I was trying to work my way up, then, and we didn't have a lot of money."

Dee gives a choked laugh. "I know how that feels."

"It gets better," he insists softly. "Just don't be afraid to ask for help, if you need it."

* * *

Dee takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself a little. She looks at John and gives him a wobbly smile. "Thanks," she whispers. She takes his hand.

* * *

John smiles at Dee and squeezes her hand gently. "You're welcome," he says softly.

* * *

Dee stops at Elizabeth's on the way home. "I've got Kristy's money," she says, smiling tiredly at Elizabeth when she answers the door.

"Oh, you didn't have to drop it by straight away," Elizabeth says, waving Dee in. "She doesn't mind waiting a few days."

Dee can smell a meatloaf cooking in the oven. It reminds her how hungry she is, and how late it's getting. "I can't stay," she says. "I'm on my way home. Did Kristy have any trouble?"

"I don't think so," Elizabeth answers. "She said Mallory and Vanessa both got home around 5:30. She left them in charge." She calls up the stairs. "Kristy!"

Dee rummages in her purse for Kristy's baby-sitting money.

"How are you, anyway?" Elizabeth asks softly. "I haven't seen you in weeks."

"Busy," Dee sighs, rubbing her face. "Really busy."

"I know," Elizabeth says sympathetically. "It gets easier."

Dee gives her a small smile. "So I've heard."

* * *

"Were you on time for school, Nicky?" John asks, watching Nicky cover his chicken in tomato ketchup.

"Yup," Nicky says. "I was even kinda _early._"

John gasps. "Never."

Nicky grins at him.

"How was piano, Jordan?"

Jordan spears a green bean on his fork and looks at it suspiciously. "Okay. It was easy today."

"See? Practise pays off."

"Yeah, yeah," Jordan sighs. He bites the end off the bean. "Can we have pizza tomorrow?"

"What is it with you guys and pizza?" John asks. "Friday night, okay?"

"Pass the ketchup, Nicky," Byron says. "This chicken needs some _flavour_."

* * *

Towards the end of the week, Dee is starting to believe that things will be all right. Things are getting easier – the girls are settling into the routine of getting themselves off to school each day; Claire has started planning things for each weekend instead of each evening; Margo has taken an interest in helping Mallory with things for the play; Vanessa is out of bed within ten minutes of the alarm going off...

And then Claire falls ill, and Dee's tentative confidence comes crashing down again.

* * *

John's never very formal when it comes to inviting people into his office.

When he hears the knock at his door, he's lounging back in his chair, aiming a scrunched-up memo at the waste-paper basket. As an invitation to come in, he calls, "Yeah," not taking his eyes off his shot.

"Swish!" he cries, spinning around to face the door, his hand already up for a celebratory high-five.

It's Dee.

He grins at her in surprise. "Hey!"

"Hi." She gives him a wobbly smile.

He drops his hand immediately and sits up straight. "You okay?"

"Um." She rubs her temple and stands awkwardly in the doorway.

"Come in," he urges, getting to his feet and ushering her into the chair across from his desk.

"I can't stay," she protests.

He kicks the door closed. His heart is hammering. He's gone from pleasantly-surprised to panicked in five seconds. For some reason, the triplets' voices chorus in his head: _She's gonna bail._

"I just wanted to say I can't have lunch today," Dee says, glancing up at him. Her face is flushed and she looks upset, but John isn't arrogant enough to think it's because she's missing lunch with him.

"That's okay." He sits on the edge of his desk. "Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry," she blurts. "It's not that I don't want to, John, because I do – I really do – but Claire's kindergarten has just called and I need to go and get her. She has a fever, and I've been trying to think of someone who can collect her for me, but there's really _nobody_ and now I have to go back to Stoneybrook and get her and make sure she's okay –"

"It's all right," John interrupts. His heart won't stop hammering and he thinks it's because Dee is suddenly so frantic and upset.

"Oh," Dee says, her voice half a sob. She holds her hands tightly over her eyes and draws in a deep breath. "Why didn't I think of this situation sooner? Why didn't I make sure there was someone around in case of an emergency like this? Someone who could get the girls if something happened, or if I was going to be late..."

She sobs for real, her face in her hands.

"Oh, Dee," John says in dismay. He plucks a tissue out of the box on his desk and hands it to her.

She looks at him helplessly. "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up," she says. Her voice is rough but she's managing to hold further tears back. "I'm barely coping with everything and I don't get to spend any time with the girls anymore..." She presses the tissue against her eyes.

"I promise gets easier," John says reassuringly. He grips the edges of his desk, not quite sure what to do. "Is Claire all right?"

"I think so," Dee says, quivery. "She's got a fever and she's just – _miserable_, I guess. I don't really know. They said she's just curled up in the nurses' office. I need to go and get her."

"Sure," John says. He feels guilty that she's had to come up and find him to cancel their lunch date.

He mentally crosses out the word _date_ because it feels like something else.

"I can't believe I'm already taking an afternoon off," Dee whispers. She stiffens slightly, and John can see guilt all over her face.

"You can't help it," he says. "Kids get sick all the time. And your boss understands, right?"

"I don't know," Dee mutters. "I don't think he likes me very much."

"Well, he'll have to deal with it," John says. "Everyone has to take time out to deal with this sort of stuff. He'll get over it."

She nods tiredly and gets to her feet before John can say anything else.

"Sorry about lunch," she whispers.

He smiles at her. "That's okay. Another time."

She nods again and looks down at her hands, the tissues crumpled and stained with mascara.

"I hope Claire's all right," John says, feeling a pang of worry that surprises him only a little.

"Yeah." Dee draws a deep breath and blinks her eyes a couple of times. "I'm sure she's okay. An afternoon on the couch in front of the TV, and a lot of juice and cuddling..."

John smiles, and half reaches out to take her hand. He changes his mind rapidly, suddenly not sure that it's the right moment to be pulling moves that end in any sort of physical intimacy.

No matter what happens on the park bench at lunch time.

Dee glances at his hand and draws in another breath. "I should go."

"Yeah." He stands up and opens the door for her. He smiles. "Feel free to stop by any time."

She gives him a small smile as she passes him, and his stomach flips over in response.

* * *

Claire's fever develops into spots, and Dee almost curses out loud when she realises it's chicken pox.

"Oh, baby," she says, cuddling Claire close. "It's okay."

"It's itchy," Claire says pathetically.

"I know. Don't scratch. I'll run a cool bath and put some calamine lotion in it, and you can play with your Skipper doll, okay?"

"Okay," Claire agrees cautiously, not daring to sound too optimistic in case it's mistaken for wellness.

Dee silently prays that the calamine lotion won't do anything negative to Skipper's hair or body.

She can't afford a new one.

Skipper survives the bath (blessedly), and Claire is soon curled on the couch in front of a Care Bears video.

Dee calls the kindergarten and tells them it's chicken pox. "She'll be out for a few days, obviously," Dee says, already worrying about who can mind Claire. "And I guess... I guess it would be prudent to warn the other parents that it's going around."

She hangs up and starts to flip through her address book.

She needs someone to take care of Claire. She wishes she could do it.

But she can't afford to take the time off right now.

* * *

John spends the rest of the day worrying about Dee. (And Claire.)

He thinks he probably has no right to – that Dee is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, even if she is finding it difficult.

_And who doesn't, sometimes?_ he asks himself.

Sometimes there are mornings where all he wants to do is hide under the covers and do nothing.

He drives home with a funny feeling of turmoil in his stomach.

* * *

"God _damn _it." Dee paces by the living room window, the cordless phone in her hand. She's had to hire a sitter for Claire from an agency.

Elizabeth recommended them, so Dee isn't worried that Claire won't be looked after. But the sitter is _late_ and Dee needs to be driving toward Stamford right now, not pacing her living room floor.

"Can I stay home too?" Margo asks.

"No, honey," Dee says. "_Please_ get ready. You have to be on your way to school soon. Make sure you stick with Vanessa, okay? And Vanessa, be _careful_ crossing the roads. No daydreaming."

"But Mallory gets to stay home!" Margo argues.

"No she doesn't," Dee says desperately. She glances at the clock again. "I have to go to work, Margo. I can't stay any longer. Mallory is going to stay here until the sitter arrives, and then she's going to school."

Dee hands Mallory a note to give to her teacher. "In case you're late."

"Don't worry, Mom," Mallory says. "She'll show up soon."

"I'm _itchy_," Claire wails.

Margo stamps her foot. "It's not _fair_!" she shouts. "I want to stay home with Mallory and Claire!"

"Claire is sick," Dee explains patiently. "And Mallory is going to school as soon as the sitter gets here."

Margo stamps her other foot. "Mallory, Mallory, _Mallory_!" she shouts. "Why does Mallory get to do _everything_?"

Dee has a headache. She holds a hand to her temple. "Get in the car," she says to Margo. "I'll drop you off at school."

Vanessa grabs Margo's hand and drags her outside.

"It'll be all right, Mom," Mallory says. "I'm sure she'll show up soon. And I don't mind waiting with Claire. I'll probably just miss homeroom. No big deal." She gives her mother a smile. "You should get to work."

Dee smiles back, hoping it's more convincing than it feels.

She kisses Claire goodbye. "Be good," she whispers. "No scratching. Do what Emma tells you, okay? She'll be here soon."

"I want you to stay home," Claire says pathetically.

Dee feels like she's being torn every which way.

* * *

John spends most of the morning worrying that Dee won't be there to have lunch with him. He wonders when, exactly, she became such an integral part of of his day. Lunch with her has fit so seamlessly into everything else, it feels like a disruption to routine when things change.

He cuts out for lunch early, stopping off at the third floor to find her. He breathes a happy sigh of relief when he sees her sitting behind her computer, hammering out a letter.

"How's Claire?" he asks.

Dee looks up at him in surprise, and then looks at her watch. "I lost track of time!" she exclaims. She pushes her hair back off her face. "John, I can't have lunch. I'm sorry. I was late this morning and I need to stay and get this done, or I'll be forced to stay back tonight, and I can't because I have to get home to Claire..." She draws in a breath.

"It's fine," John assures her, though he's disappointed. "Anything I can do to help?"

She smiles at him. "I'm afraid not."

He grins. Disappointment lifts itself off his shoulders in response to the smile she's just given him. "Just yell."

"I will."

"Want me to get you some lunch?"

"Um... A sandwich..." She reaches for her purse.

"I've got it," he says, waving the money away. He asks again. "How's Claire?"

Dee sighs again and shakes her head. "Chicken pox."

John pulls a face. "I remember that."

"The others have had it before, thank goodness. But Claire's miserable." She turns back to her computer. "So am I," she adds. She gives him a small smile. "Sorry about lunch."

"Don't worry about it." He smiles at her. "I'll bring you back a sandwich."

He whistles when he strolls across the street to buy his lunch – and hers. He's filled with a funny sort of relief and protectiveness, and it's confusing but not exactly unpleasant.

He buys Dee a chicken salad sandwich and a vanilla cupcake with chocolate frosting.

* * *

Dee can still taste frosting when she writes a careful note to John and slips it into the building's inner mail system. She knows it probably won't reach him until tomorrow morning, but she figures it won't matter.

_Maybe we could have dinner one night, instead of lunch?_

* * *

"Can we play Nintendo?"

John gives a loud groan and hefts the remote in his hands. "Don't you want to watch sports with your old man?"

"We want to play sports," Jordan says, glancing to the television.

"In the form of _Nintendo_," Adam adds.

John smirks. "Well, I've got the remote."

Adam's brow creases, and Jordan presses his lips into a thin line.

"Get him," Byron says.

"No!" John rolls over, already laughing, but they're on him, fingers digging into his ribs and tickling under his chin. "Don't!" he yells, rolling over again. Nicky climbs on top of him.

"You're all grounded!" He's laughing helplessly, trying to heave them off.

Jordan snatches the remote out of his father's hand, victorious.

John slumps into the couch cushions, trying to catch his breath. "I'll get you back," he mutters.

"Sure, Dad." Byron sits on the floor and leans against the couch, a Nintendo controller already in his hands. "Like you'll ever outwit all four of us."

* * *

"What would I ever do without you?" Dee praises Mallory, wrapping her arms tightly around her eldest daughter.

"_Mom_," Mallory groans. "It's only dinner. I've made dinner a hundred times before."

Dee kisses the top of Mallory's head. "Thank you," she says.

"I helped," Margo says crossly.

Dee wraps her arms tightly around Margo and lifts her, pressing kisses against her face. Margo giggles and squirms to be put down again.

Dee extends her hugs and kisses into the living room, where Vanessa is reading quietly to Claire on the couch. She kisses them both and hugs them tightly.

"I don't know what I'd do without the four of you," she says, sitting down and pulling Claire into her lap.

"Jeez, Mom," Mallory says, her eyes wide. "You're the glue that holds this together, you know. Calm down."

Dee laughs and kisses the top of Claire's head. "It's just nice to know I can rely on you all so much," she says. "It's one less worry."

* * *

John tosses another memo at the waste-paper basket in the corner. He rips another envelope open, already desperate for his mid-morning caffeine fix. He glances at the clock, and then back to the paper in his hand.

It takes him a moment to register it's hand-written.

It takes him another moment to realise it's from Dee, and even longer than that to comprehend what she's actually written.

He grins and folds the note neatly, putting it in his shirt pocket.

* * *

Dee spends her morning in a state of nerves, not sure if John received her message or not. She's starting to wonder if perhaps she was a little hasty. She's not sure if she's ready to take on something else that could end in disaster.

She wonders if perhaps she was too forward and now she's spooked him.

* * *

John spends his morning nervous as all hell. He picks up the phone to call down to Dee's desk a hundred times, only to drop it clumsily back into its cradle within seconds.

The prospect of a real date both thrills and terrifies him. Suddenly everything with Dee seems very _real_, very _possible._ Instead of thinking about their next lunch date in the park, he's thinking about her in his house, tutting and laughing at the pile of pizza boxes and the crumpled sports pages all over the living room...

And the boys folding their arms and treating her with suspicion.

_Nah,_ John thinks, trying to convince himself. _They'd love her._

He swallows, and checks his watch for the third time in ten minutes.

* * *

John stops by Dee's desk and asks if she's ready to go to lunch. She grabs her coat and practically runs to the elevator with him, desperate for fresh air and a break away from her desk and the glare of her computer screen.

John doesn't mention the note, and nor does she. She's not sure how long it would take to reach him, and so she's decided not to say anything until she has confirmation of its arrival.

"How's Claire?" John asks.

"Feeling a bit better, I think," Dee says.

"And you?" He smiles at her.

She smiles back and gives a small shrug. "I'm all right, I suppose. I hate having to rely on a babysitter so much." She wrinkles her nose. "Not to mention it's costing me a fortune."

They stop at the side of the street and wait for a gap in the traffic.

Dee glances sideways at John and catches his eye.

Suddenly she knows – she just _knows_ – that he's received her message.

* * *

John shoves his hands into his pockets and glances sideways at Dee.

"So," he says, grinning at her. "I got an interesting note through the mail system today."

"Oh you did?" Dee tucks her hair behind her ears and looks nervous.

"It wasn't signed," John says. "I think I have a secret admirer."

A fleeting grin passes across Dee's face, but she hides it.

"What?" John asks in surprise. "You don't believe me?"

She laughs and leads the way across the street, toward the park. "I didn't say that."

"Anyway, this mystery woman wants to have dinner with me one night," John says.

"How do you know it's a woman?" Dee sinks onto the park bench and smiles up at him innocently.

"_Anyway,_" John says, sitting beside her. He pauses, and then laughs and shakes his head as he gives up his façade. "Dee," he says. "Will you have dinner with me one night?"

* * *

Dee blushes like a damn schoolgirl, but she can't wipe the smile off her face. "I'd really like that," she says.

John takes her hand, looking stupidly pleased and not bothering to hide it. (Which pleases Dee more than she'd like to admit.)

"So," he says. "How's your schedule?"

She tilts her head and thinks. "This week is kind of crazy," she admits. "I can't do Friday, I'm afraid."

"I can't do Friday either," John says. "Pizza night."

Dee grins at him. "Exactly. And I haven't seen the girls much lately and I just feel that if I –"

John holds his hand up to stop her.

She smiles and shrugs. "Can't do Saturday either. Liz is coming by. It's been a long time since we had a chance to talk properly. I don't want to cancel on her."

"That's okay," John says. "I can't do Sunday, though. Jordan's got a piano recital and I've missed so many of those over the years –"

Dee holds up her hand to stop him. She smiles. "Next week, then?"

"Meetings on Monday night," John says slowly, his eyes glazing slightly. "And my parents are coming for dinner on Tuesday."

"Mallory's play starts on Wednesday and runs for three nights," Dee says. "I told her we'd all go to the opening night – and I haven't organised a sitter for Thursday or Friday, but I suppose I could, if that's the only time we have..."

John rubs his brow. "Meetings Thursday night," he said. "I could do Friday."

"I think I could do Friday..." Dee bites her lip, unsure. It's more than a week away and she's not sure she's able to plan an evening away from home so far in advance. Especially when Mallory won't be around to babysit.

John takes her hand and squeezes it. "We'll figure it out," he says. "I'm just glad you accepted the invitation."

* * *

John comes downstairs in bare feet and old sweats, only to find Jordan rummaging through his wallet.

"Excuse me," John says. "But what are you doing?"

"Pizza guy's here," Jordan says. "Where's all your money?"

John tugs his wallet out of Jordan's hands. "Pizza guy's here?"

Jordan points through the window and John spies a spotty teenager struggling with a heavy load of pizza and sodas.

"How about you go and help him?"

Jordan smirks. "Will you tip me?"

John taps the back of Jordan's head. "Does it look like I can afford to?"

Jordan laughs and runs to the front door. "Pizza!" he shouts through to the living room.

As John pays for the pizza, he can't help but wonder what _next_ Friday's dinner will be like.

* * *

Kristy, Mallory and Vanessa have escaped upstairs to talk about last-minute changes to the script for the school production.

Charlie, Sam and David Michael are out back with Claire and Margo, playing something that involves a lot of running around and yelling.

"At least they'll be worn out by bedtime," Dee says, watching Claire tear past, chased by Charlie.

Elizabeth laughs and cups her hands around her cup of coffee. "So," she says, now that they're alone. "How's work?"

"Fine, I suppose," Dee answers, sinking into a seat opposite her. "But it's starting to pile up. I think I'm going to have to stay late one night next week and I'm trying to figure out which night it should be." She rakes her hands through her hair and bites her lip. She's been avoiding the subject of John, but she has an idea Elizabeth knows something anyway.

Elizabeth raises her eyebrow. "Working late?"

"Yes," Dee answers, and she laughs and buries her face in her hands. "But there might be something else, as well."

"Ha!" Elizabeth says gleefully, leaning forward. "I knew it. Who is he?"

Dee glances toward the stairs to make sure they're alone. "John Pike. He works in my building."

Elizabeth tilts her head. "Haven't heard of him."

"He's nice," Dee says, turning her coffee around in her hands. "Very nice."

Elizabeth waits patiently.

"But," Dee says cautiously, "liking someone so much again makes me nervous." She swallows and shifts in her seat. "After what happened."

"I know," Elizabeth says gently.

Dee knows Elizabeth knows, and that's why she trusts every word she says.

"You should give him a chance," Elizabeth says. "Don't let fear get in the way. If he can make you and the girls happy, Dee, you go for it." She winks and leans back in her chair. "Now," she says. "Tell me what he looks like."

* * *

John grins at Jordan and ruffles his hair gently. "See?" he says. "All that practice paid off."

"Yeah, yeah," Jordan says, but he looks pleased.

"Want to stop for a soda or something on the way home?" John asks, moving aside to let a crowd of parents and their children through.

"Really?" Jordan asks. "Can I get a cheeseburger or something? I'm starving."

"Sure." John squeezes his son's shoulder gently before he steers him toward the door. "And feel free to brag about this to your brothers," he adds. "If they miss a piano recital, they miss out on cheeseburgers."

"Suckers," Jordan says, grinning at him.

* * *

Dee hugs Mal tightly – perhaps for a little too long.

"_Mom_," Mallory hisses, mortified.

Dee lets her go and Mallory glances around to see if any of her friends saw.

"It was a beautiful play, honey," Dee says, grabbing hold of the back of Claire's dress before her youngest daughter wanders off again. "I could hear you in every word."

"Really?" Mallory asks, smiling.

"I liked the costumes," Margo says.

"Want to come backstage and have a closer look?" Mallory asks.

"Can I?" Margo asks, tugging at Dee's hand.

"Sure," Dee says. "Don't run off anywhere though. Stay with Mallory."

"I'm coming too!" Claire says, following along after her sisters.

Vanessa sighs and trudges after them, committing herself to the team spirit but making it clear that seeing the costumes aren't high on her list of priorities.

Dee watches them all weave their way through the crowd, hands linking them together in a chain.

She decides to use some of her precious, hard-earned money to buy ice-creams on the way home.

* * *

John is starving and his eyes have glazed over. Conference calls are definitely on his list of Least Favourite Things Ever.

His floor of the building is mostly dark. He's linked on the phone to four other cities across the country and he's tired and bored.

He wishes he'd grabbed something to eat earlier. He's starving.

* * *

Dee is alternating between anger and desperation. She wants to kill someone or burst into tears – she's not sure which.

She puts in a call to Elizabeth and begs a favour. "I have to stay late," she says. "It's the final night of Mal's play, but she's staying at Jessi's. Vanessa, Margo and Claire will have a babysitter until seven, but I won't be home by then. Can you...?"

"I'll take care of it," Elizabeth promises. "Don't worry."

"If you can't, I'll come home," Dee says hastily. "I can always stay late tomorrow."

"You're supposed to be having dinner with John, tomorrow," Elizabeth reminds her.

Dee toys with her pen. "I know."

"Cold feet?"

"Maybe," Dee whispers, feeling a wave of guilt sweep over her. "I don't know. We've both been busy this week and I haven't seen him much..."

"Give him a call tomorrow and see what he thinks," Elizabeth suggests. "Don't worry about the girls. I'll go over and sit with them for a while. Charlie's home – he can watch David Michael."

"Thanks, Liz," Dee says gratefully.

"Any time."

* * *

John steps into the elevator and, out of habit, hits the button for the third floor.

"Shit," he says, annoyed with himself, before he jabs the button for the basement parking garage.

The doors slide open on third, and Dee's desk lamp catches his attention. He steps out, just as she looks up.

"Hi," he calls across the room.

"Hi," she answers in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Conference calls," he says, awkwardly pointing upward to indicate his office. "And you?"

She tosses down an envelope and sighs. "Sealing and labelling envelopes," she says.

The elevator doors slide closed again, and it rattles away.

"Need help?" John asks, wandering over to Dee.

"No, it's okay," she assures him. "I've already called and told the girls I'll be late. If I can get this finished, I'm free tomorrow night..." She trails off and looks down at her desk.

John glances over Dee's desk. It's a jumble of folded papers and envelopes and labels. "I'll help," he says. "It won't take long. Then you can get home early." He grins at her. "The boys already know I'll be late."

"Are you sure?" Dee asks helplessly.

"Uh-huh." He shrugs out of his jacket, but pauses. "Have you had dinner?"

Dee realises she's starving. John orders Chinese and pulls a chair across from a neighbouring desk.

"Newsletters in the envelope," she says, demonstrating, "and then choose an address label..." She hands a couple of sheets to him.

He loosens his tie and rolls his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and for some reason Dee finds everything very... intimate.

"How was Mallory's play?" he asks after a moment. "I haven't even asked."

"Oh, it was great," Dee says, smiling. "Really good. I almost cried."

John laughs.

Dee seals another envelope. "Do you still want to have dinner tomorrow night?" she asks. She prays she's not turning red, or sounding reluctant. Or desperate. Whichever is worse.

John looks at her and smiles. "Tell you what," he says, "have dinner with me now, tonight, and I'll give you tomorrow night off."

"That's not really fair to you," she says, smiling back at him.

"Then you owe me a favour," he says, winking at her.

She laughs, and relaxes. "Okay."

* * *

They've made a lot of progress, and John's glad he stayed behind to help Dee.

Her desk is scattered with papers and envelops and Chinese take-out cartons, and she's starting to act more like herself again.

John wonders if she was as nervous about the prospect of tomorrow night's official dinner date as he was. He likes the way things have worked out – impromptu take-out at her desk, swapping stories about their kids and laughing at some of the names and addresses on the envelope labels.

"You know," John says quietly, keeping his eyes on his fried rice instead of looking at Dee, "now that we're all _serious_ and having dinner..."

"Yes?" Dee swings her chair around to look at him, her eyebrows raised, a small smile already creasing her mouth.

John clears his throat. "Well... I mean... I was just thinking that... if we're starting to get... I mean..."

_Oh, for God's sake, John._

"Don't you have to talk in court, in front of a lot of people, on a regular basis?" Dee asks, sounding amused.

He grins, embarrassed, and pushes his rice away. "Yes."

"You should be better at speaking, then."

"I usually am." He tugs the arm of her chair and pulls it (and her) across the carpet, close to him. "I haven't told the boys about you yet," he admits.

She blinks at him. She's so close he can smell that sweet, floral smell that seems to radiate out of her skin. He doesn't know if it's perfume, or shampoo, or soap, or whatever... He likes it, though.

"I haven't told the girls about you, either," she says. "Maybe that's the next step, hm?"

"I was kind of hoping there was another step before that one," John admits.

Dee bites her lip, and he grins.

He leans in and kisses her sweetly.

* * *

The girls are still awake when Dee gets home. She whispers a thank you to Elizabeth at the door, and makes a mental note to repay her by going over every little detail of dinner with John.

Her daughters are piled on the couch in front of the TV. Claire's eyes are starting to close, though she's making an effort to keep herself awake until one of her sisters admits similar fatigue.

Dee still feels jittery from John's kiss. "Hi," she says, sitting in the arm chair.

"Hi," the girls murmur, their eyes fixed on the television.

Dee can't figure out a good way to break the news. She still feels keyed up, and she knows that deep down, waiting until tomorrow is probably a better plan. But the little shivers of excitement still running down her spine encourage her to say something _now._

"I, uh..." She trails off, suddenly understanding John's difficulty with words. "Someone asked me out," she blurts.

Mallory sits up. Vanessa looks at her. Margo yawns, and Claire's glazed eyes never leave the television.

"On a date?" Mallory asks.

"Yes," Dee says nervously. "He's – he's very nice. I've known him for a little while now. He works in the same building as me."

"Are you going to _go_?" Mallory asks, astounded. "Is that where you were tonight?"

"No," Dee says. "I was working. But... But I might go out with him next week sometime."

Mallory nudges Vanessa, who springs into action.

"Aren't you happy with the way things are?" Vanessa asks. "You've got your daughters, a house, a car. Why do you think we need a _boy_? The four of us give you so much joy..."

"That's... very nice, Vanessa," Dee says, blinking.

"One of your better ones," Mallory mutters out of the corner of her mouth.

Vanessa looks pleased.

"Listen, it's not going to _change_ anything," Dee says. "I mean, not really. I'll just... go out with him, now and then. The four of you will still come first."

"Will he come and visit?" Claire asks curiously, finally tuning into the conversation.

"Oh, no," Dee says. "I mean – not for a while, honey. Not until we're ready."

"I'm ready," Claire says simply. She turns back to the television. "I don't care about boys, anyway."

"I don't like boys," Margo says, siding with Mallory and Vanessa. "I _never_ have, and I _never_ will."

Dee's eldest daughters both exchange another glance.

"What does he do?" Mallory asks. "Is he divorced? What does he know about us? What have you told him?"

"Nothing that will end civilisation as we know it," Dee promises. "Mallory, please. I haven't given away _all _of our secrets to the enemy."

Mallory sighs and rolls her eyes. "Fine," she said. "But I don't think this will end well, Mom."

"Me either," Vanessa says, widening her eyes dramatically.

Dee's stomach flutters a little. It hasn't gone badly. It hasn't gone _brilliantly._

But she's willing to take slight suspicion and distrust over tantrums and tears.

For now.

* * *

Adam's reaction is tantamount to the world ending. "Are you _serious_?" he says. "Dad, this is the sweetest bachelor pad _ever._ Do you really want a bunch of _girls_ here?"

"Seriously," Jordan agrees. "They'll be complaining about the toilet seat, like, all the time." He side-eyes Adam and mutters out of the corner of his mouth. "Right?"

"Totally," Adam agrees.

John gazes up at them wearily. He's still collapsed in his arm chair, arms and legs loose, sleeves rolled up and tie undone. "They're not aliens, you guys. And besides, I'm not _marrying_ her. It's just dinner now and then."

"They may as well be aliens," Nicky says, chiming in.

"And dinner is exactly how it starts," Jordan declares. "That's how they trap you. Like one of those fly-eating plants."

"She's _not_ a fly-eating plant," John says firmly.

"We're _balanced_ here," Byron adds emphatically. "I thought you were happy with things the way they are."

John thinks all four of his sons have the makings of Lawyers From Hell in them.

But they learned from the master, and John has a trick or two up his sleeve yet.

"Fine," he sighs, and he offers his hands in an 'I give up' sort of gesture. "You guys have to come first. I'll call it all off. I'll tell her I can't see her. I'll tell her you guys are too important and you don't want me to date anyone."

Byron and Nicky are the first ones to look uncomfortable. Byron shuffles his feet and glances at Adam, who looks out the window.

Jordan folds his arms across his chest. "Really?" he asks, not buying it for a second.

"Really," John says, and there are no tricks this time. "You guys will always come first. I promise. If you say no girls, then I guess... no girls."

Jordan's shoulders slump, and he kicks the toe of his sneaker against the carpet, glancing around at his brothers guiltily. "Well," he says eventually, "I guess one or two dates wouldn't hurt. If it would make you happy."

John tries not to look too smug. "Thank you," he says graciously.

* * *

Dee stretches out in bed, her eyes closed. The house is silent and the street outside is hushed with soft rain.

She touches her fingers to her lips for a moment, remembering the warm press of John's mouth against hers.

She smiles.

* * *

John stretches out in bed and closes his eyes with a sigh. The house is quiet and the air smells like rain.

He breathes in deeply, remembering the warm, floral scent of Dee's skin and hair, so close and soft against him.

He smiles.


	27. Plead

**Title/Prompt:** Plead  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 791  
**Summary:** The Pikes are one down.

******Notes: **This is what happens when I'm sick, take a day off work, and spend ALL DAY talking to BSC fandom friends on AIM. Our conversation culminated in a squee-fest about the Pikes and certain animals. Of course the two had to be combined.

- Please note that this is unrelated to the previous chapter, and is _not _a Pike Pack instalment.

* * *

Frodo the hamster dies just before the triplets turn eleven.

"You have to buy us a dog now," Adam says.

"We _have_ a dog," Dee says, pointing to Pow. Pow raises his head tiredly.

"Like, a _real_ dog," Jordan says. "Not a second-hand one."

"Oh," Dee says, kneeling down by Pow's head. "Poor Pow-Wow. Are you listening to this?"

The triplets give up on their mother and go to find their father.

* * *

"Absolutely not," John says. "This place is already a zoo. We don't need another dog."

"Another pet, though," Byron reasons. "We're one down. The family is _smaller._"

"Mallory's coming back over the summer," John says. "You can make do with her."

"We can't train her," Jordan dismisses. "We've tried."

* * *

The first week of summer brings the Stoneybrook Summer Festival. A staggered miniature city of tents and pens is set up across Brenner Field. The air smells of straw, manure and popcorn.

The triplets have turned their desire for a new pet into a running joke, which involves their parents buying them ridiculous animals like elephants and lions.

"Dad!" Byron shouts, pointing. "That camel. I want it."

"Yeah, me too," Jordan says.

"Camels stink," John says. "No way."

"It can't smell any worse than Nicky," Adam mutters.

"Hey!" Nicky cries. He looks wounded, until Dee distracts him by offering him the rest of her corndog.

Claire spots them first. A wide, grassy pen full of miniature pigs and piglets. "_Piggies!_" she shrieks. "Dad, Dad! Piggies!"

She hauls on John's hand, dragging him across the grass.

"Ohh," Dee croons. "They're so cute!"

She misses the mixed look of warning and horror John gives her. It's too late, anyway. The triplets have latched onto her enthusiasm.

"_Sweet_," Adam says. "Mom's buying us a pig."

"No she's not," John warns.

"Let's get this one." Jordan leans over the fence and gently strokes a sleeping piglet. It grunts, but doesn't move.

"No, we want one that looks alive," Byron says. "We've already got a pet that sleeps all the time."

"Let's get _that_ one," Claire says, pointing to a fat pink piglet running around. "And let's call it James Bond."

"James Bond!" The triplets chorus the name and then fall about laughing.

"Emily," Vanessa says wistfully.

"Emily's not a pig's name," Jordan says scornfully.

"Dickinson, then."

Adam sniggers. "Dick, for short."

"I like Pickles," Dee says, looking down at the miniature pigs fondly.

John's eyes bulge. "We're _not_ getting a pig!"

"Buy _all_ the mini pigs!" Claire shrieks.

"We should call it Sausage!" Nicky crows. "Get it? Get it, Jordan?"

"Good one," Jordan says.

Dee leans her head against John's arm. "They're _so_ cute."

"So am I," John says. "But none of you fall about cooing over me anymore."

"Pigs stink," Margo says disdainfully.

"No worse than –"

"Those camels," Dee says, interrupting Adam with a stern look.

"What do they eat?" Mallory asks.

"They eat everything," Jordan says. "They're like little vacuum cleaners."

"You lot are already eating us out of house and home," John says, exasperated.

"Dad, seriously, we want a pig," Adam says, turning to him eagerly. "Can we get one? _Really_ can we get one?"

"Please?" Claire chimes in, not taking her eyes off the pigs. She stands between her parents and grips John's right hand and Dee's left, tightly.

"Where are we going to put a pig?" John asks. "And it was hard enough getting you guys to clean Frodo's cage – are you really going to want to clean up after a pig?"

"Pigs can be trained to go outside, like a dog," Vanessa says. She holds up a leaflet.

"Where'd you get that?" Dee takes it and runs her eyes over it. "Oh!" she says. She points to a figure at the bottom of the page. "No thanks."

"Sorry guys," John says. "These are some expensive little piggies."

"But they'll offer a _lifetime_ of love!" Byron says. "Those numbers are just guidelines, anyway. You gotta haggle, Dad."

"This isn't the middle ages," John says. "The breeder wants a certain price for his stock. I'd have to sell one of you off before we could afford one."

"Nicky," Adam says.

"Enough," Dee says warningly.

"So..." Jordan hesitates for a moment. "Does that mean we go back to negotiating a deal on the camels?"


	28. Missing

**Title/Prompt:** Missing  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 1042  
**Summary:** Patrick is missing. Fathers are not.

******Notes: **_What_ is with Charlie Thomas all up in my plot bunnies lately? I've got a big 7000 word fic with him coming - my poor betas are still wading through it - and now this! I do love Charlie though - _love_ - and I've been toying with a couple of ideas featuring him for a while, only to incorporate them all in the same fic. Thanks to _isabelquinn_ and _miss_slipslop_ for their help and beta! :)

* * *

It's summer, and Charlie Thomas is seven years old. The air is thick and humid, and the promise of rain is at the horizon's edge.

Charlie grips the bat in his hands, his body tensing in anticipation, and swings.

He connects bat to ball with a satisfying _crack_, one of his favourite sounds in the world. He drops the bat in the dust and takes off toward first base. He can hear the crowd shouting and whistling over the roar of his pulse and the desperate gasp of each breath.

Somewhere up there, his mom and dad are cheering him on.

* * *

They walk home while the sidewalks are still hot, but the sky has darkened and thunder is rolling through the cloud.

"Is my son gonna be a star, or what?"

Charlie feels another leap of pleasure in his stomach as his father claps a gentle hand to his shoulder. He looks up and grins.

Dad grins back at him. "First home run, kid. How does it feel?"

"Awesome," Charlie breathes happily.

Dad ruffles his hair. "Yeah," he says. "You made your old man proud."

* * *

It's summer. Charlie Thomas is ten years old, and the house – which felt a little too full, at times, just a couple of months ago – feels much too empty now.

Sometimes he sits on the front porch with his ball and glove, playing out little fantasies in his mind, where Dad strolls in the front gate and gives him a wide grin.

_Sorry, kid. Business trip from hell. Never did have time to tell you all where I'd gone. Want to hit some fly balls?_

But the cold reality of an empty chair at the dinner table and his mother's stifled sobs at night tell Charlie there's no excuse for this absence.

* * *

One morning, Charlie is on the porch, listening to the muffled echoes of Bugs Bunny cartoons Sam and Kristy are watching inside.

Mr. Spier leans his arms on the fence between his house and theirs, and calls quietly. "Charlie, would you help me with something for a moment, please?"

"Sure," Charlie says. He hastily pushes his glove into the shadow of the porch, as though he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, and rounds the fence.

Mr. Spier's car is parked in the driveway. The hood is up.

As he's shown how to check and change the oil, how to change a flat, how to check the radiator, and a dozen other little things he has never before given thought to, Charlie ignores that Mr. Spier obviously needs very little help at all.

"Where'd you learn all this stuff?" he asks, forgetting that he's always been just a _little_ afraid of Mr. Spier.

"My father taught me," Mr. Spier answers. He, like Charlie, has grease and dirt on his hands, and Charlie marvels for a moment at seeing him so unlike his usual self. "He used to be the mail-man around here," he adds after a moment. "He rode a bike, most of the time, but during the winter he'd have to take a car. He showed me how to keep it in fine running order."

He closes the hood gently, and Charlie feels a slight sinking in his stomach as he realises the morning's lesson is over.

"I'm too busy to do these things a lot of the time," Mr. Spier says after a moment. "I was wondering if I might ask a favour of you."

Charlie feels his face warming, and a swell of hope and anticipation curls inside him.

"I was wondering if perhaps I could rely on you to do some of these things for me," Mr. Spier says, passing Charlie a rag for his hands.

"Really?" Charlie asks breathlessly. Sparks of excitement flicker in his chest. "Sure!"

"I'd contribute to your allowance, of course," Mr. Spier says. "I'll talk to your mother about it."

Charlie beams at him. "Thanks, Mr. Spier."

Mr. Spier taps his cheek, indicating a grease spot. Charlie scrubs at his face with the rag.

"I'll take a look whenever you want me to," he says hastily, looking longingly at the car again.

"Come by next Saturday," Mr. Spier says, wiping his own hands. "I'm sure I'll find something that needs to be done."

"No problem," Charlie says eagerly.

"I'll show you a few things again," Mr. Spier says. "Changing a flat can take practice, you know."

"Okay."

They seal their new agreement with a handshake.

"Good work today, Charlie," Mr. Spier says, smiling down at him kindly. "You should be proud of yourself."

* * *

It's summer, Charlie Thomas is seventeen-years-old, and he's still holding his college acceptance letter in his hand.

Rain pours off the back porch, and the air is a little sharper, a little clearer, than it was an hour previously.

He reads the letter again, though he knows it by heart already, and his cheeks pull and hurt a little when he grins to himself – which he has been doing all day.

The back door closes softly, and Charlie looks up to see Watson's beaming face.

"Your mother told me you got a letter today," he says.

Charlie grins and passes his step-father the letter, which is softened and slightly creased due to constant handling.

He watches the smile on Watson's face grow as he reads the letter. When Watson looks up at him again, it's with misty eyes.

"I'm so proud of you, Charlie," he says.

Charlie can feel a lump in his own throat. "Thank you," he says, rather gruffly.

Watson reaches up to pat his shoulder, squeezing gently, and then quietly pulls Charlie into a firm hug.

Charlie rests his brow against the top of Watson's shoulder for a brief moment.

When they pull apart, Watson swipes at his eyes hastily.

"You should be proud of yourself, as well," he says, looking down at the letter again. "You worked hard for this."

Charlie smiles at him. "I am proud," he says, finally admitting it out loud. "Thank you, Watson."


	29. Café

**Title/Prompt:** Café  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG/M [adult content, nothing explicit]  
**Word count:** 7675  
**Summary:** The café with Charlie felt like shelter in a storm.

******Notes: **I have wanted to write a Charlie/Mary Anne pairing for a _long_ time, and attempted it several times before giving up, because I couldn't get what was in my head out onto the document. I tried on and off for over a year, but the idea only ever developed in my head, until _miss_slipslop_ candidly said one day, "Hey, when are we going to get to see Charlie/Mary Anne?"  
I opened a new doc and this is what happened! I'm going to revisit this universe in the future, because I think I've finally managed to get a handle on my thoughts!Thanks to _isabelquinn_ and _miss_slipslop_ for their help and beta! :)

Those of you hanging out for _The Pike Pack -_ it will be back! I have sooo many prompts still left to write! ;p

* * *

It's Kristy's idea. (Of course it is.)

"You should go and have coffee with her, or something," she says on the phone, making it sound more like an order than a suggestion. "She's feeling kind of overwhelmed. Seeing a familiar face would probably help."

"Okay," Charlie says, flipping through his mail. "New York is kind of overwhelming me, too."

Kristy snorts.

* * *

It's cold. Mary Anne's hair is tucked up under her hat and the ends of her scarf beat against the front of her coat as she hurries along the sidewalk.

She doesn't know whether to be excited or nervous, and the feeling of in-between is all too familiar to her. New York City has her falling between extremes of anxiety and utter joy, and it's exhausting.

She keeps her head down when she walks, looking up on each corner only to make sure she's headed in the right direction.

She's had coffee with Stacey here before. (Well, hot chocolate. Mary Anne doesn't like coffee.)

Charlie is already inside.

* * *

Charlie hasn't seen Mary Anne in a few years. Three years, maybe, except for quick glances of her as they drive past one another in Stoneybrook, or through the window in his old bedroom as she comes and goes on her visits to Kristy.

She hasn't changed much. Her face isn't as round as he remembers, because she's not in that soft, awkward mid-teens phase anymore – she's eighteen and suddenly all grown up, away from home.

_All grown up._ Charlie tells himself to get over it and stop being so condescending.

Her cheeks are bright with the cold and her eyes are dark and shining. "Hi, Charlie," she says, and her smile still has a hint of shyness about it.

She hasn't changed.

He grins back at her. "Hey, Mary Anne."

* * *

Mary Anne has hot chocolate and Charlie has coffee with cream and sugar.

It's a little awkward at first – Mary Anne has never really sat one-on-one with Charlie. But it's as though Kristy is sitting there between them, ordering that they try, because they're both in New York City and they're both still trying to find the beat of their own feet on the ground.

She doesn't ask about California – Kristy has told her a little bit, about how he came home as soon as he'd finished college because California was entirely too close to Patrick; that the little stitches of mending the rips and tears between father and son had been torn open again for some reason or another. (Even Kristy appears a little unsure of the reason, and Charlie has only ever said it's because he wanted to be closer to home, but it has never really been in Mary Anne's nature to pry.)

_Talk!_ Invisible Kristy is as equally demanding as Real Kristy.

"How are you liking New York?" Mary Anne asks, pushing a marshmallow down into her hot chocolate with a spoon.

Charlie hesitates for a minute before he shrugs. "It's kind of – too closed in, for me. I like it okay, though. I like my job."

Mary Anne smiles at him. "I know what you mean."

* * *

The conversation is easy, once they get past the awkward niceties that tend to occur between people who haven't seen one another for years.

"Kristy said you're studying literature," Charlie says, folding an empty sugar packet around the tip of his index finger.

Mary Anne smiles, but looks slightly exasperated. "I am. But I'm not completely sure what I'll do with my degree yet. Provided I get it."

"You will," Charlie says.

"I think maybe I'd like to go into publishing," Mary Anne says, rather quickly and breathlessly, like she's still not used to the idea herself. "But I don't know. I change my mind a lot."

Charlie watches her stir through a few spilled grains of sugar with her finger, and realises he's surprised at how unsettled she seems.

"There's nothing wrong with not being sure," he says. "You're only eighteen. You've got plenty of time to change your mind."

She smiles, but it's brief. "Everyone else went off to college so _sure._"

"_Kristy_ went off to college so sure," Charlie corrected her. "She's not everybody. She's not _normal._"

Mary Anne laughs, and Charlie makes a mental note to thank Kristy later. It _has_ made him feel more grounded, sitting opposite Mary Anne.

* * *

Mary Anne goes to her Monday classes and doesn't feel like she's drowning.

Charlie has reminded her of home, without making her feel guilty about it. She feels like she's spent a weekend in Stoneybrook and she remembers who she is now; has a little pocket of courage tucked away inside her, like she's been recharged.

But there hasn't been any pretence, no reassurances where she has to insist that yes, she loves New York and that yes, she's doing fine, really, without wondering all along if she's telling lies.

Stoneybrook is becoming a challenge as much as it is a haven.

The café with Charlie felt like shelter in a storm.

* * *

Charlie leaves a message for Kristy, just to say he and Mary Anne had coffee on Sunday and that it was a good idea, thanks for suggesting it.

Kristy calls him back and smugly says she very rarely has bad ideas.

"Is she all right, though?" she asks, and Charlie can _hear_ the frown of concern she's wearing. "New York isn't freaking her out, is it?"

"She seems fine," Charlie says. "She's been here a while, Kristy."

"Exactly," Kristy says. "She should be enjoying it more, now that it's not so new. Right?"

Charlie just rolls his eyes. He thinks Kristy misses having to worry about Mary Anne. "She's fine," he says firmly, though he later admits to himself that he doesn't really _know._

He plays back old messages on his machine until he finds one where Kristy left Mary Anne's number for him.

He writes it down on the back of an old train ticket (to Stoneybrook, which seems ridiculously appropriate) and slips it into his wallet.

* * *

Mary Anne is more nervous the _second _time she goes to meet Charlie. He has suggested the same café, and she was quite content to agree, considering the quality of the hot chocolate and the fact that it's a little out of the way, so nobody from class should be there.

She's early, but she's got a satchel full of notebooks and novels to keep her busy while she waits. She sits a few books in the seat opposite her so nobody will take it. She leafs through her lecture notes and wonders what topics of conversation she and Charlie will cover now they're all "caught up" on one another.

The chair opposite her scrapes out, and she jumps and looks up, mouth already open to protest that the chair stay where it is.

Charlie looks down at the books and then asks, "Are you saving this seat for Mr. Darcy?"

Mary Anne holds her hands out expectantly and he places the books carefully into her grasp.

"I'm surprised you know who Mr. Darcy is," she says, smiling at him.

He grins and pulls his scarf off. "Please. Girls talk about that guy constantly, of course I know who he is."

Mary Anne sets Jane Austen aside and closes her notebook. "I haven't ordered anything."

"Hot chocolate?" he asks, and she nods, already feeling more at ease.

* * *

It's a relief to be able to have a conversation with someone like Mary Anne. She doesn't throw questions Charlie doesn't want to answer. She doesn't require him to be _on_.

He can see now why she and Kristy make such a formidable team. He can see now how there were so many successes for Kristy, even at twelve, thirteen, fourteen, with someone as balanced and calm and understanding as Mary Anne is, right by her side.

She seems content to simply sit opposite him in a crowded little café, hot chocolate cupped in her hands, hair still damp from the January air outside.

It's at times like this Charlie realises what a strain it is, trying to make it seem like the move from California to New York was really nothing more than wanting to be closer to home.

* * *

Mary Anne finds herself relying on her weekend meetings with Charlie in the café. They don't always talk much – sometimes he sits and grades papers and she reads one of her books for class.

Sometimes she catches him watching her over the edge of the sports section of his newspaper.

Sometimes he catches her watching him, and she always blushes, which prompts him to smile.

She looks forward to seeing him, because she can be herself and _not_ be herself. He doesn't have the same expectations of her that Kristy does, but he still knows what is at the basic core of her; he still knows what sort of person she really is without expecting her to fill some sort of role.

She can remember trips across Stoneybrook in the back of the Junk Bucket (God rest her soul), with Charlie driving, never showing a moment's impatience at the giggling or bickering that went on between the teenage girls he was chauffeuring.

Earlier than that, she can remember camp-outs in the back yard on Bradford Court, Kristy's face lit up with a flash-light, Mary Anne pale and trembling, before Charlie and Sam jump out from behind the fence wearing Halloween masks. (She and Kristy both abandoned the tent in the yard and slept inside after that.)

Earlier than that, she can remember Charlie generously spreading peanut butter and jelly on bread for an after-school snack, the house full of kids and empty of adults, homework and text books scattered on tables or dumped at the bottom of flights of stairs.

He has always been there in some capacity – not always in the background, but not really up with the main events of her life, either.

Charlie Thomas. Just there.

* * *

Charlie hadn't expected groups of five, six or seven-year olds to be so into Valentine's Day, but the school is decorated with paper hearts and pink and red. The girls have caught onto Romance for the first time in their lives, and the boys are properly terrified.

Charlie has to tell three of the girls in his class to stop chasing the boys around, trying to score kisses. He sets them up for an exhausting game of kickball, hoping to wear them out and distract them from trying to find their One True Love.

But he calls Mary Anne later that night to laugh about it.

"That's so _cute,_" she says, and then she starts to reminisce about the Valentine's Day events the Baby-sitters Club had held, years before. (She, like Kristy, holds memories of the Club with an air of nostalgia and fondness, rather than embarrassment, which Charlie kind of likes.)

"I don't like Valentine's Day," Mary Anne says, which surprises Charlie. To him, Valentine's Day seems like one of those things Mary Anne should love.

"You don't?"

"It's so over the top," Mary Anne says. "Like couples are all out to prove to one another which of them has the strongest love. I just don't think you can prove love by putting it on display like that. Sometimes love can be quiet."

Charlie clucks his tongue. "Better cancel all those flowers, chocolates and teddy bears I've got comin' to you then, huh?"

He can hear her grimace, and he laughs, cutting the joke off before it can grow into something awkward. "Night, Mary Anne," he says.

"Bye, Charlie."

His hand rests on the receiver long after he's hung up the phone, silence settling around him.

* * *

"You work too hard," Charlie tells her one rainy Saturday.

"Everybody says that," Mary Anne answers, weary of having to defend her choice to pursue books and study over liquor and boys.

She knows she's probably missing out on something she won't be able to get again once college is over. She's been told by practically everyone – except her father – that replacing a few nights of study with some drinks and dancing is what college is _really_ about.

"I don't mean take tonight off and spend a few hours drinking yourself into a drunken stupor," Charlie says. He pauses, and adds, "Though that would be amusing to see."

Mary Anne can't help but smile. She straightens up and stretches her arms over her head. "I don't like alcohol," she says.

"You're just not drinking the right stuff."

"That's what Kristy said!" Mary Anne cries.

Charlie's eyes bulge. "Kristy doesn't drink," he says firmly. "She's under 21."

Mary Anne shrieks with laughter, and then turns red when people at nearby tables turn to look at her. She covers her face with her hands and listens to Charlie laughing at her.

* * *

Charlie can't remember how it started. (Something small – _so _small, which blew up into something so ridiculously big.)

He and Mary Anne haven't spoken for four days and it's making him restless. Work gives him a headache. He can't sleep. He has things he wants to say to her – stupid things about his classes, about something he read in the paper, about the novel she was reading for class last week.

He can't remember what he said to her, but he knows it stung. She ended their argument by calling him pig-headed and storming out of the café, which hurt as much as it made him angry.

All those times Kristy and Mary Anne fought growing up, he blamed Kristy. (Mary Anne seems too sweet, too quiet, too shy to really fight with anyone.)

But Mary Anne has hidden blades. She's fierce and stubborn and this time she's fired all her frustration and stress right at Charlie.

He lays awake, hating the feeling of loss he has. Surprised by it.

* * *

Mary Anne has always hated fighting. And she can't even remember how this one started. Part of her blames college – it's shaping her into someone a little sharper, a little more sarcastic. She hasn't really hated these changes, until now.

To fight with _Charlie_. Of all people. (Though, he's so like Kristy in a lot of ways, and Mary Anne has definitely had her fair share of arguments with Kristy.)

She writes letters of apology that end up shredded into pieces. Half-dials his number.

She wants to call Kristy and talk about it, but can't bring herself to do it.

* * *

Charlie waits outside the café. The sun is out, but the air is still cold. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his jacket and looks along the sidewalk until he finally sees her, walking quickly, head down.

She slows when she sees him. "Hi," she says softly.

"Sorry," he blurts.

She looks relieved. "Me too."

He nods and swallows. "And I'm sorry it took me a week to apologise."

She smiles at him. "I'm sorry, too."

He shrugs. "Forget it?"

She nods, and then looks him up and down. "Why are you waiting outside?"

"Oh," he says. "I wanted to give you a chance to see me and turn back, if you didn't want to talk to me. But I wanted to see you, and I thought maybe you'd just head here today..."

She looks at him for a long moment, the smile still lingering on her face.

She lifts her head when he bends to kiss her, his mouth just pressing lightly against hers, and suddenly everything makes a lot of damn sense.

* * *

They don't tell anyone. Mary Anne knows at some point they have to tell Kristy, but they're both putting it off.

Charlie is scared Kristy will actually kill him.

"With a baseball bat," Mary Anne says solemnly.

He shudders, but grins.

Deep down, Mary Anne is worried. She doesn't like keeping secrets from Kristy, and Charlie is something she _wants_ to talk about. She's just not sure Kristy will react well to the news.

She calls Dawn. "You have to swear you won't breathe a word of this conversation to anyone," Mary Anne says sternly.

"I won't," Dawn breathes excitedly. "Now _tell_ me."

"I... um..." Mary Anne frowns as she realises she hasn't thought the conversation through. "I've kissed Charlie," she says.

"Who?" Dawn asks. There's a beat. "Charlie _Thomas_?"

"A few times," Mary Anne says. She can feel herself going red, but she's grinning.

Dawn thinks carefully, and then starts firing questions. "Does Kristy know?"

"Not yet."

"Is it weird? With Charlie?"

"No."

"It's _not_?"

"Not really," Mary Anne says truthfully. "I don't know. We've been meeting each weekend, for weeks and weeks – and we talk about everything. It just kind of happened."

"Is it good?" Dawn asks curiously. "Is he a good kisser?"

"Yes," Mary Anne says, and she's so embarrassed and nervous she starts to laugh. She leans her back against the wall. "Dawn," she groans, "what am I going to tell Kristy?"

"Are you and Charlie a serious thing?" Dawn asks. "If you're just going to kiss a few times and then move on, you probably don't have to tell Kristy anything."

"Really?" Mary Anne asks, exasperated. "You know me better than that."

"Sorry," Dawn says. "It's just – you've kind of blown me away here, Mary Anne."

"Do you think... I mean..." Mary Anne swallows, hard. "What do you think?"

Of all people, Dawn is probably the worst person to ask when it comes to love advice. She seems to assign philosophies and tag-lines to love and relationships all the time, all the while insisting love can't be labelled.

But she surprises Mary Anne, this time. She doesn't spring forth with speeches about love being free; she doesn't challenge the idea of soul mates or monogamy, or start listing the ways society grips so firmly to outdated ideas.

She says, "Who cares what I think? So long as you're happy, Mary Anne."

* * *

Charlie watches Mary Anne's stress levels rise as time suddenly delivers mid-terms at her feet.

"You have nothing to worry about," he tells her, trying to help her sort her lecture notes into piles and categories on their tiny table in the café. "You're the second-most organised person I know – and if I didn't know Kristy, you'd definitely be in first."

"I just can't get any peace," Mary Anne says, and Charlie can see dark shadows under her eyes. "I've got so many things due at the end of this week." She looks up at him desperately. "How does everyone else have the time to get all this done _and_ party every night?"

"They don't," Charlie assures her. "They'll start crashing and burning any day now."

Mary Anne winces.

He turns to the waitress and asks to get their order changed to go.

Mary Anne only protests slightly as he bundles her papers together again and leads her out into the weak sunlight, cardboard cups and books in their hands.

She cheers up a little once she's out in the fresh air, but still keeps to a conversation that focuses on her workload.

"You're worrying too much," he tells her again. He puts his arm around her and she leans her head against the hollow of his shoulder.

"Maybe," she sighs.

* * *

Mary Anne has no idea where they're walking to. She just follows Charlie. (It's different with him out in the open, away from the closed-in intimacy of the café and the feeling of other people watching.)

When it clouds over and starts to drizzle soft rain, he takes her hand and says they're near his place, did she want to come up?

"You can finish your paper," he says.

"Okay," Mary Anne says cautiously.

It's not that she doesn't trust him. He's one of the people she trusts most – always has been. The problem is suddenly trusting _herself_.

* * *

Mary Anne kisses him properly on his living room floor. This isn't one of those chaste hello or goodbye kisses, or one of the fond little kisses she gives him when he says something funny or kind. (Not that he dislikes those kisses at _all_.)

This is warm, open mouth, tongue.

She stops him after a while – gently pushes his hand away from where it was beginning to sneak up under her shirt, and says, "You lured me up here by saying I could get some work done."

"I didn't 'lure' you up here," he says, grinning down at her. Her hair is spread across his carpet. "I remember you saying something about Jane Austen's heroines getting caught in the rain on purpose, just to spend the night with an eligible bachelor."

"It's nice to know you listen," she says drowsily. "But you think too much of yourself."

He brushes his mouth over hers again. "If I'd known you could kiss like that I would've led you out into the rain sooner." He smirks at her. "And you act so innocent."

She widens her eyes slightly.

"Not sure where you learned to kiss like that," he says, putting a stern tone into his voice.

"BSC slumber parties," she says, not missing a beat. "I practised on your sister."

He still hasn't forgiven her by dinner time.

* * *

It's Spring Break. Mary Anne has two whole weeks of freedom in front of her. It's almost dizzying.

Dawn is coming to visit (she missed Christmas, and promised Sharon she'd fly out whenever she got the chance – which means she has to sacrifice Spring Break on the coast for Spring Break in Stoneybrook).

Mary Anne secretly can't wait to get back to Stoneybrook. It's been several long weeks since her last proper visit. But –

"Kristy's coming to visit," Charlie blurts, looking panicked.

"Oh," Mary Anne says. The smile on her face fades almost as quickly as it arrived, and anxiety seats itself firmly in her stomach.

"What do we do?" Charlie asks.

Mary Anne bites her lip and shrugs. "Tell her the truth, I guess," she says. "It's about time, isn't it?"

Charlie rests his head down on the table between them. "She's going to kill me."

* * *

Mary Anne goes back to Stoneybrook, leaving Charlie in the city alone. It feels less like home without her there, and he begins to think about heading back to Stoneybrook for a couple of days himself – but he resists.

His mother leaves a message on his answering machine, and the noise of the Thomas-Brewer house in the background, while not as loud as it used to be, makes him feel homesick.

He calls back and David Michael answers the phone.

"Hey, beanpole," Charlie says. "How's school?"

"Duh," David Michael says. "I'm on break!"

"Duh!" Charlie says. "Me too." He leans back on his couch and props his feet up on the coffee table.

David Michael challenges him. "They gave us _homework._ Teachers suck."

"I didn't give my kids homework," Charlie says.

"You should move back here and teach me," David Michael says.

Charlie laughs.

* * *

Dawn barricades the door to Mary Anne's bedroom at the earliest opportunity. "Tell me _everything,_" she says. "Does Kristy know yet?"

"Not yet," Mary Anne says. "She's coming to New York next week, to see Charlie – and me, I guess."

Dawn's eyes widen. "Are you going to tell her then? Together?"

"I don't know," Mary Anne says anxiously. "Do you think she'll be mad?"

Dawn thinks for a moment. "I don't know," she says honestly. She gives Mary Anne a sunny grin. "I think it's _great._" She grabs Mary Anne's pillow and hugs it to her chest. "Has he changed much? I haven't seen Charlie in _ages._"

Mary Anne shrugs, feeling self-conscious. "He hasn't changed much."

"Have you always liked him?" Dawn asks curiously.

"Of course I – well, not like _this,_" Mary Anne says. "I don't know, Dawn. This just makes sense." She looks down at her hands, not sure how to explain things. "It all happened kind of slowly. It's not like there was this sudden spark, or anything."

"I think that's nice, though," Dawn says dreamily. "Sparks are so cliché."

* * *

Elizabeth's reaction is to pause for a few long, long seconds, and then laugh and say, "I didn't see that coming."

"I know," Charlie groans, rubbing his hand over his face. He tugs lightly on the phone cord. His heart is beating heavily in his chest.

"It's just strange to think of her – of you both – in a new role," his mother explains. "She's always just been Mary Anne Spier, and now –"

"Mom," Charlie begs, "don't."

"Sorry," Elizabeth says, and then she laughs again. "Oh, honey. I love Mary Anne. I'm just a bit surprised, that's all."

"I'm gonna have to tell Kristy when I see her on Saturday," Charlie says in a rush. The relief of his mother's support is overwhelmed by his sudden nervousness. "I don't know how she'll react."

"Neither do I," Elizabeth says honestly. "She loves you both. It'll be hard for her to get used to this."

Charlie thumbs the phone cord. "We've both said if she's not happy about it we'll... You know. Not." He clears his throat. His heart sinks at the thought. (There's still a tiny part of him so surprised by all of this; surprised by the ache of disappointment in his chest at the thought of not being with Mary Anne.)

"I'm sure it won't come to that," Elizabeth says comfortingly. "I'm sure you and Mary Anne have both talked about Kristy's feelings a lot. Neither of you would ever want to hurt her. And she knows that, too. I'm sure it'll be okay."

Her voice softens, and when she speaks again it's with an edge of desperation. "But Charlie, be _careful,_" she says. "I don't want any of you to be hurt."

* * *

"I definitely think you should tell her," Charlie says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "She won't punch you."

"She won't punch you, either," Mary Anne says.

"Oh, she will," Charlie says confidently. "She _totally _will."

Mary Anne jumps as the buzzer by the front door sounds.

"That's her," Charlie says, nervously knocking his fist against his palm.

"Well let her up!" Mary Anne says, pushing him. "Honestly, you need to calm down."

"I'm thinking about running away down the fire escape," he confesses, before he buzzes Kristy up into the apartment.

She comes in carrying a duffel bag, a wide grin on her face. "You're here too!" she exclaims, throwing her bag on the floor.

"Uh-huh," Mary Anne says. Her throat is dry.

Kristy throws her arms around Mary Anne and squeezes her tightly. "You still look terrified," she jokes. "I thought you'd be used to New York by now?"

Mary Anne offers a weak laugh, but squeezes Kristy tightly. There's a lump in her throat as she thinks about what might happen if Kristy reacts badly to the idea of her brother and her best friend dating.

"Your directions sucked," Kristy tells Charlie. She punches his arm lightly and then quickly throws her arms around him, too.

"I told him to go and meet you at the station," Mary Anne says, shooting Charlie an annoyed look.

He grins sheepishly.

"I'm _really_ hungry," Kristy says, stepping back and glancing between the two of them. She hesitates and tilts her head, looking at Mary Anne. "What's wrong?"

Mary Anne can't help it – tears well up and she starts to cry.

"Oh," Charlie says in dismay.

Kristy looks worried. She sinks onto the couch and pulls Mary Anne down beside her. "What's happened?" she asks frantically.

"No, nothing," Mary Anne croaks. She wipes her eyes on the back of her hand and looks up at Charlie.

He looks worried, too. "Kristy..."

She looks up at him, clearly waiting for an explanation, but falters when she sees the nervous look on Charlie's face.

Mary Anne clings to Kristy's hand, silently willing her not to hate them. She's suddenly wondering why on earth she and Charlie ever embarked down this road together anyway, with Kristy so _between_ them.

She leans her head against Kristy's shoulder.

"Mary Anne and I..." Charlie eases himself gingerly into a sagging armchair. "We're kind of..."

Mary Anne sniffs and wipes away another swell of tears. "Dating," she says.

She watches Kristy's face carefully. Her expression is frozen for a long moment, but then her smile fades.

"Are you serious?" she asks finally. She looks at Charlie angrily. "She's my best friend!" she says incredulously. "And _gross,_ Mary Anne! He's my brother!"

"Hey," Charlie says. "I'm a prize catch."

"I know you're mad," Mary Anne says, and she's almost _trembling._ Her voice cracks. "We know it's kind of..."

"Weird?" Charlie offers.

"Oh," Kristy says in disgust. "Don't start finishing each other's sentences. Seriously?" She folds her arms and glances from one to the other. "_Really_?" she asks. "You're not joking, are you?" She narrows her eyes at Charlie.

"My jokes are better than this," he says.

Kristy sighs and rubs her face, staring sullenly at the floor. "I knew it was a bad idea to have you two meeting up so often," she grumbles. "I knew you'd be talking about me."

"We don't, really," Mary Anne says, hoping it'll cheer Kristy up again.

Her brows twitch. "That's even worse," she mutters.

"Oh, stop sulking," Charlie says. "I'll fix you something to eat." He escapes to the kitchen.

Mary Anne squeezes Kristy's hand. "Are you mad?" she asks timidly.

Kristy looks mad, but she gives a sigh of resignation. "I don't know," she admits finally. "I'm kind of..." She frowns. "I need to think about this."

Mary Anne wonders how much information is too much. "We just work," she says softly. "It's like we were friends first... but not even that, really. Just... We just understand each other, I guess."

"Oh, gross," Kristy says. But she leans her head against Mary Anne's shoulder. "You'd better stay together," she mumbles finally. "I'm not going to be able to deal with two broken hearts."

* * *

"I need to take a shower," Kristy says, escaping into the bathroom. She yells orders through the closed door. "Don't you dare start making out in there!"

"She's okay," Charlie says to Mary Anne. He feels exhausted.

Mary Anne buries her face against his neck, warm and close. They sit together on the couch for a moment, quietly.

When the water shuts off, Mary Anne pulls away from him slowly.

By the time Kristy emerges again, eyeing them suspiciously, they're at opposite ends of the couch.

* * *

Every now and then, Richard has meetings in New York. He and Mary Anne always have lunch on these days and, despite it being such a new tradition, Mary Anne looks forward to them with an odd feeling of nostalgia.

"You're very quiet today," he says to her across the table.

"Am I?" Mary Anne asks. She smiles at him. "Sorry."

"Is anything wrong?"

"No." Mary Anne straightens her fork on the napkin beside her plate. "How's Tigger, Dad?"

Richard chuckles. "Tigger's fine." He drums his fingers lightly on the table. "Sharon has a theory," he says after a moment.

_Uh-oh._ Mary Anne shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

"She thought you were looking a little..." He clears his throat, but smiles. "Lovesick?" he asks.

Mary Anne gives a nervous laugh that sounds utterly false. She takes a hasty sip of her water. She's never been able to lie to her father – has never wanted to, really – but the thought of discussing boyfriends with him has always been uncomfortable.

Richard doesn't say anything else, but he has an annoyingly-knowing look on his face. He turns to the window and watches a few people walk past. "It's a nice day," he says after a moment.

"It's Charlie Thomas," Mary Anne blurts, her eyes wide. She can feel heat stealing to her face.

She watches his reaction closely. She thinks she can see him pale slightly.

"Well," he says. He sounds flustered, but he gives her a small smile. "You could do a lot worse than Charlie Thomas."

* * *

Charlie watches Mary Anne deteriorate into a nervous wreck when finals come around. Circles develop under her eyes and she snaps at him whenever he tries to tell her to relax.

He's not sure if she's always been so highly-strung when it comes to school-work, or if it's something that's developed since starting college. (Or, perhaps, since dating him.)

He finds it tiring, trying to keep up with her ever-changing mood. They have an argument on the sidewalk outside of his apartment building, and she storms away.

Ten minutes later, he follows her, feeling guilty. He doesn't want to add to her stress.

Sometimes he's surprised by how little he knows about her. Sometimes he thinks he can predict her behaviour because he's known her so long, has grown up only slightly ahead of her, has had Thanksgivings and Christmases with her. Just when he thinks he has her pinned – just when he thinks he has the upper hand and he has her personality firmly within his grasp, she slips away into something shadowy and new.

Sometimes he finds it annoying. (And then he gets annoyed with _himself_, because who is he, really, to determine who Mary Anne Spier should be.)

* * *

Mary Anne has already turned back, intent on apologising to Charlie. They stand on opposites sides of the street, waiting for the lights to change, staring at one another miserably.

She's terrified that the threads between them will break, and her life will be forced to change forever. Things with Kristy will change. Things with the whole Thomas family will change, and they've been as much her family as her father is, all her life.

They meet in the middle of the street and Charlie wraps his arms tightly around her before they start to walk back to his place in silence.

"I'm really tired," Mary Anne confesses softly. (Campus has been a noisy mix of stressing students and end-of-year parties. Study _and_ sleep are both difficult.)

"I know," Charlie says.

He tucks her into his bed and she falls asleep holding his hand.

* * *

"I just feel like everyone has these expectations," Mary Anne says softly. "And I have expectations of myself, too, and..." She sighs and closes her eyes. "I don't know."

Charlie strokes his thumb gently over the soft slope of her cheek. "I know," he says. "That's normal, Mary Anne."

He doesn't tell her that he has expectations of her, too. That's his fault. Not hers. (She's always proving him wrong, anyhow.)

"Sometimes I still feel so suffocated," she whispers. "Like everyone knows me better than I know myself, and whenever I do something different, I'm being _wrong_ somehow."

"I know how you feel," Charlie whispers back to her.

They're sharing the same pillow. Under the blankets, though the sun hasn't quite set outside.

"Charlie."

"What?"

"Why don't you ever talk about California?" Mary Anne blinks slowly at him.

He can feel stirrings of apprehension swirl within him. He doesn't realise how long it's taken him to answer until Mary Anne speaks again, her fingers spreading slowly against his chest, over his t-shirt.

"You don't have to talk about it," she says, closing her eyes again. "It doesn't matter."

Thinking about California makes him feel wistful, selfish and full of regret, all at once.

He can feel a lump in his throat. "I think Patrick is going to leave Zoey."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because I can just see it." The lump grows bigger and he squeezes his eyes closed, feeling embarrassed. "I've seen it before."

She doesn't say what he has imagined her – anyone – to say. That he was only ten, that he couldn't have seen it the first time, not really; that Zoey and Elizabeth are different and that Zoey must have known, _must_ have known what she was getting into with Patrick and can't suffer the same consequences. This is what he imagines everyone will say to him, if he voices his fears aloud.

Mary Anne gently traces the curve of his ear with her thumb and says, "That must have been terrible."

Charlie nods. "I didn't know what to do. I didn't – I mean, I never saw much of Patrick anyway. Zoey tried for ages to get us in the same room together, but he never really cared and I just... I didn't want to." He frowns, his face against the top of Mary Anne's head.

"I've always been scared that Kristy – and, and you, and Sam and David Michael – would... I don't know. Forgive him, I guess, and that he'd hurt you all, all over again."

"I've always been scared of that too," Charlie confesses.

He wonders if Kristy talks to Mary Anne about Patrick. She never talks about him much to anyone, but now Charlie can't help but wonder what secrets have been confessed to Mary Anne over the years, what she knows about his family – what he hasn't considered she knows.

"Are you sure?" Mary Anne asks after a moment. Her breath is warm against his throat. "Are you sure he's going to leave?"

He's sure. "By the time I came home, he was just... disappearing for days at a time. Driving up and down the coast. He and Zoey – she wanted kids right from the start. I don't know if he ever told her he did, too, but they don't have any and now he's saying it doesn't want them." He can almost taste the bitterness in his voice. "He doesn't want any _more_ kids."

Mary Anne winces and tightens her arms around him. "What a jerk."

Charlie huffs a short laugh against the top of her head. "Yeah."

* * *

Mary Anne can't face going back to campus, amongst all the noise and the accusations about where she has been, who she's been with, _why _won't she just relax and have a drink?

People see her as cold and snobby, and it breaks her heart and makes her retreat further into her shell – which only serves to further the accusations, really.

She doesn't really raise the issue with Charlie. She just stays.

* * *

"I'm gonna have to start charging you rent."

Mary Anne smiles sheepishly at him. "Sorry."

He grins and shrugs. "I was kidding."

It's only been a few days. But there's a blue and yellow toothbrush on the bathroom sink – not his – and two dresses hanging in his closet – _definitely not his._

Mary Anne's mood has improved with some solid sleep, and her essays and books are spread across Charlie's kitchen table.

He kisses her goodbye in the morning, and hello in the evening.

* * *

Mary Anne misses Kristy. They still talk, but it's not the same. There are silences that seem strained, which has never really happened before, and Mary Anne can tell there are questions Kristy is _dying_ to ask, but dares not.

She calls Kristy late one afternoon. Her room on campus is a mess of clothes and half-packed suitcases, books and old essay papers.

"I am _so_ glad the year is over," Kristy says. "I had my last exam this morning."

"I'm packing," Mary Anne says. She pauses. "Trying to."

Kristy laughs. "Ah, plenty of time for that yet."

Mary Anne grips the receiver and leans her forehead against the wall. Downstairs, music has started, thought it's not deafening yet. "Listen, Kristy," she says softly. "You're spending the summer in Stoneybrook, right?"

"Uh-huh," Kristy says. She hesitates. "I guess you're going to be between Stoneybrook and New York... With – with Charlie there, huh?"

"I guess," Mary Anne says cautiously. "We haven't really talked about it. And I'm not sure Dad would – I mean, I don't know what he'd think."

Kristy laughs. "Doesn't he trust Charlie?"

"I don't think he really trusts anyone," Mary Anne says, smiling. She draws a quick, sharp breath, and then says, "I'm sorry it's been so weird."

Kristy sighs. "Me too. But it _is_ weird, Mary Anne. I still don't know if I really like it."

"I know," Mary Anne says softly. She feels like crying.

"Haven't you thought about what would happen if it goes wrong?" Kristy asks desperately.

"Of course we have," Mary Anne says, and her voice cracks. She keeps huddled to the wall, though everyone seems to be downstairs, spilling out onto the path outside. "Kristy, this isn't something we just decided to do. We didn't come into this without talking about it all. About what could happen."

"Yeah," Kristy sighs. "I guess you're both smarter than that."

"Well..." Mary Anne sniffs, still blinking back tears. "Do you want to have lunch together or something next week?"

There's a brief pause. "Monday?" Kristy asks.

Relief overwhelms Mary Anne. "Yeah," she breathes. "Monday's fine."

"I'll meet you at the Rosebud Café," Kristy says. "Don't bring Charlie."

Mary Anne laughs and wipes her eyes. "No boys allowed."

* * *

"What time's your dad picking you up?"

"We'll have time for lunch."

Charlie kisses her again, thumbs tracing circles just under the hem of the soft t-shirt Mary Anne wears to bed. "I feel bad," he whispers. "I've never once taken you to dinner."

"You _should_ feel bad about that," Mary Anne says.

He laughs into her neck. "I'll take you on a proper date when you come back," he says. "Don't take too long about it, though."

"I'll be here all the time," Mary Anne promises. She squirms under him. "That tickles."

"What am I going to do all summer?" he asks.

"Poor Charlie," Mary Anne says. "All this free time on your hands."

"It'd be _great_ if you were hanging around," he says. His hand inches higher, flattening out over her ribs. "We could spend all summer doing this."

"You'd get sick of it," Mary Anne mutters. Her fingers twine into his hair.

"Clearly you know nothing about me." His thumb brushes the soft underside of her breast.

"I know you, Charlie Thomas." She smiles up at him, her eyes wide and dark. "You'd wait more than one summer for me."

He nudges the loose neck of her t-shirt aside and grazes his teeth against her bare shoulder. "I really would," he murmurs.

She takes his hands and he knows it's time to stop. He curls around her tightly, his fingers still tracing over her skin, on her arms and over her hip.

She starts to whisper an apology to him and he kisses the back of her neck.

He hasn't said he loves her, but he's pretty certain he does. And, what's better, he thinks she loves him too.

* * *

The day is warm, but Mary Anne still orders a hot chocolate. It doesn't feel right, going to the café with Charlie and not having one.

"Mom's demanding that we all have dinner," Charlie says morosely. "My parents, and your dad and Sharon, and you..."

Mary Anne feels a simultaneous thrill of nervousness and happiness. "It wouldn't be anything we haven't done before."

"Except there wouldn't be a whole herd of distracting siblings to hide behind," Charlie warns.

"At least there'd be more food to go around without Sam there," Mary Anne says, grinning at him over the top of her mug.

Charlie laughs and takes her hand across the table. "Dinner with parents means we must be getting _serious._"

Mary Anne widens her eyes at him. "I guess so." She smiles. "We wouldn't be doing this if we weren't serious."

He strokes the inside of her wrist. "Yeah." He grins at her.

She told Dawn there wasn't any spark, any real sign that this was the right thing to do. But there _is_ the slow fire holding fast in her chest, the burn of his touch on her skin, the warm blood in her cheek when he kisses her.

Sparks aren't what Mary Anne Spier is looking for. Sparks are too short-lived.


	30. Pleasure

**Title/Prompt:** Pleasure  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG [adult themes, language]  
**Word count:** 2881  
**Summary:** Five times Elizabeth Thomas kissed Richard Spier.

**Notes: **Yay, I wrote fic! Yayyyy. I feel like I should put a disclaimer, in that these kisses aren't very, er, kissy. I'm not that big on themes of infidelity, so. Anyway, it appears my love for Richard Spier is not yet dead. Maybe one day I'll write something that's not parent!fic, but today is not that day.

I'm sorry I can't seem to keep my 'series' fics updated in a way that's easy to track. All I can do is promise that when Pike Pack or Charlie/Mary Anne is continued (and they will be!) I'll label it clearly so you all know what's going on.

Thank you for reading, and thanks for the favourites, subscriptions and reviews! I really appreciate it. :)

* * *

#1

Elizabeth rested the lid back on the trash can gently and dusted her hands, taking a moment to look up at the night sky. It had been a long day. Her feet hurt, and her eyes still stung a little, the skin beneath her lower lashes left dark with traces of smudged mascara.

The streetlight didn't reach as far as the backyards on Bradford Court, and the sun had gone down too far to do much but light the very edges of the sky. The moon was still low, and cast a shadow from the Spiers' house over the Thomases' backyard. So Elizabeth saw Richard standing on his back porch long before he saw her standing by the side of her house in the shadows.

After a while he sensed her though, and he turned to say, "Good evening, Edie," and her heart broke.

She leaned against the fence, fingers curling over the top of the palings. "Hi, Richard," she said.

She had watched him at the funeral. He had spoken softly, sadly. He had stood at the grave and watched Alma's coffin lower slowly into the ground. He had clasped hands with people, and nodded and smiled at their stories and memories.

He had spoken to her out behind the church hall, escaping the stifling heat of being indoors, and he had clasped her hand tightly and murmured how he couldn't bear to hear Alma being spoken of in past tense. Then he had disappeared inside again and she'd only seen him once more, catching his eye as she'd left for home, a grateful smile tilting the edge of his mouth as he'd nodded farewell.

And just now he'd said, "Good evening, Edie," when it was one of the most terrible evenings ever.

Elizabeth didn't know what to say. She watched him walk across his backyard toward her and she swallowed hard when she saw the despair on his face. She reached over the fence to wrap her arms around his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and he shook his head tiredly, his arms over the fence and around her back, and she felt his tears against her shoulder, his glasses pushed up against his brow.

She took them off and pressed a kiss against his temple and thought about how much she missed Alma and how there was nothing she could say which would possibly be enough. She kept her mouth against his skin and listened to the crickets chirp as the sun slipped all the way gone.

#2

The puppy fell asleep, eventually, curled up at Kristy's side. She had crashed out beneath the tree, amongst the mess of ribbon and wrapping paper still scattered across the floor. The boys had disappeared upstairs, dragging Patrick by the hands and asking him to judge while they raced their new Matchbox cars.

"I'm going to kill Patrick for getting that dog," Elizabeth muttered, holding a hand to her brow as though it'd lessen the ache there.

Richard smiled, but didn't say anything. He closed the dishwasher and looked through to the living room. Mary Anne was stretched out on the couch, fast asleep.

"Leave her there," Elizabeth said. "It's fine. If you don't mind her sleeping, that is."

"No, I don't mind." He smiled at her. "Thank you, again, for inviting us to spend Christmas –"

She cut him off. "Don't," she said, shaking her head. "You're welcome any time. It's my pleasure. Really."

Another wave of icy rain lashed at the kitchen window, and Elizabeth shivered and peered out into the yard. The snow had melted, except for a couple of patches still sheltered in against the porch and the side fence, and rain had been coming down all day, leaving slushy ice against the window panes.

"Coffee?" she asked Richard.

"I'll get it," he said. "You sit down."

She didn't argue with him. She sank into one of the kitchen chairs and rested a hand over her swollen stomach. The baby kicked and shifted about inside her. The table was cleared, but the cloth was spotted with gravy, and there seemed to be a lot of peas on the floor. She winced at the thought of all the cleaning she still had to do, even if Richard had been kind enough to take one of those chores away by loading the dishwasher.

The smell of coffee stirred her. "Oh," she said suddenly, getting to her feet again. "There's a tin of gingerbread somewhere..." She met Richard at the end of the kitchen counter, and looked up to see mistletoe hanging above them. "Patrick put that there," she blurted, as Richard looked up at it. "He thinks it's – he thinks mistletoe is funny."

Even as she said it, making excuses, she was lifting her hands to catch Richard's face and pull him down to her for a kiss. His mouth was already slightly parted, his lips warm and pliant against hers, and she didn't fail to notice the way he roughly slid one of the coffee mugs onto the counter so he could cup her cheek in his hand.

She hadn't kissed a man other than Patrick since college, and she told herself that was the only reason her spine ran sharp with electricity.

The kiss broke, and the end of Richard's nose grazed her cheek, and his breath fell against her mouth.

She looked up at him slowly, and it was only the thought of Patrick upstairs, and the girls asleep in the next room, which kept her from kissing him again. "Merry Christmas," she whispered.

"Merry Christmas," he repeated.

She wondered if her eyes were as wide as his. "I'll get the gingerbread," she said.

#3

It took Elizabeth a couple of moments to register the knock at the door, and even longer to realise Richard had let himself in.

"Hi," she whispered. Her voice was ghostly to her own ears.

"I heard..." Richard sat on the couch beside her and looked at her sadly, and she wondered if perhaps he had refused to believe it until now, or if he had known at once it was true, and had come straight over as soon as he'd had the chance.

"What am I going to do?" she asked helplessly. "He just left, and he took our savings and he never even left a note..." She sobbed, but her eyes were dry, long since cried out of tears. "I don't know why."

Richard put his arm around her and she crumbled. She knew now what being heartbroken felt like, and it was worse than she had ever dared allow herself to imagine.

"I don't know what I did," she said, and she tried again to pinpoint a moment that must have sparked Patrick's desire to leave.

Richard's thumb traced over her shoulder, his fingers curling around her upper arm comfortingly. "I think," he said softly, "you married a man who didn't want to grow up."

She buried her face in her hands and cried, and Richard smoothed his palm over her back, and she thought perhaps he was right, and maybe it was all Patrick's fault, every little bit of it, because he had never taken on more responsibility than he'd wanted to.

When she'd cried herself out, again, she leaned against his arm, her fingers nested tightly between his, and kissed his shoulder through his shirt, letting her breath bloom warm through the material to his skin, her mouth leaving a damp print.

He rested his cheek down against the top of her head and sat with her in silence.

#4

"Oh shit," Elizabeth whispered, clenching her teeth as she helplessly watched an apple roll out of the top of the grocery bag. It bounced on the ground and rolled under the car. She hefted David Michael in one arm and heard him protest with a loud cry.

"I know," she apologised. "I should have had my keys ready, right? You'd think I'd have learned after the last time this happened..." Another apple rolled out of the bag as she tilted, trying to pull her car keys out of her purse.

"Shit!" she said again, but the apple didn't fall far enough to bounce. It fell into a hand.

"Good evening, Edie," Richard said, setting the apple back and taking the bag out of her arms.

"Hi," she breathed. "Thanks."

He smiled at her and waited while she located her keys. "I seem to juggle like this a lot," she admitted. "I'm still not – not used to this." Guilt hit her again and sat like a rock in her stomach. Trying to leave work on time, collect David Michael from daycare before she was charged for another half hour, buy her groceries from the still-unfamiliar Stamford supermarket... It was harder than she'd predicted it would be. And that was without the dozens of little things, like simply having to carry too much by herself.

"It takes time," Richard said, taking her keys. He lifted the trunk and set the groceries gently inside. David Michael gave him a gummy smile, and Richard smiled back.

"I'm running late," Elizabeth lamented. "I'm always running late these days."

"I won't keep you," Richard said, closing the trunk gently. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Edie."

She looked up at him and hefted David Michael a little. "Do want to come by for dinner?" she asked, suddenly. "It's pizza night. I bought – I bought those bases, you know, and the kids make toppings. They usually look like gross faces, but they taste okay. There's one for Mary Anne."

Richard smiled at her again. "I'm sure she'd like that, thank you."

"Just come by when you're ready."

"We will." Richard looked down as David Michael grabbed hold of his tie and brought it to his mouth.

"Oh, no," Elizabeth said, pulling it free. "Sorry."

Richard's fingers brushed hers as he smoothed his tie back against his shirt, and she caught his hand and squeezed it.

"Thanks for all your help," she said. "And not just – not just the groceries. For everything."

"There's no need to thank me," he said, smiling at her. "It's my pleasure."

She reached up on her toes and pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth, foolish for a moment in her gratitude, hoping nobody who knew them happened to be crossing the parking lot at the Stamford grocery store.

His thumb brushed over her bare wedding finger.

"I'll see you later," she said, falling back to her heels again. "You don't need to bring anything but yourselves."

#5

Elizabeth pulled into the driveway and looked up at the house a little worriedly. She hated summer – the kids were home from school all day, and it was difficult to convince Sam and Kristy to stay under Charlie's watch for so long.

Kristy, she was sure, would be with either Claudia or Mary Anne – or both. Richard could afford to take summer vacation and stay home to spend time with his daughter. Elizabeth couldn't. And Mimi was always willing to look after the girls if they decided the Kishi household would be where they'd be spending their time that day.

Sam had been talking of nothing else but seeing a movie with the Jones boys that afternoon. Maxine would bring him home at six, probably full of popcorn and sticky with spilled soda, but happy and excited.

But it was Charlie she had been worried about today. Reversing out of the driveway that morning, Elizabeth had caught sight of him sitting on the porch steps, his baseball glove in his hand, his small shoulders slumped. Waiting for a game with someone who wasn't coming home.

She lifted David Michael from his car seat in the back, groaning a little and muttering in his ear about how big he was getting. He rested his head tiredly against her shoulder, his thumb in his mouth. Elizabeth climbed the porch steps carefully, her feet aching and her back stiff.

"I'm home!" she called, closing the front door behind her.

Louie barked from the kitchen and galloped toward her, slipping and skidding on the floorboards. He ran at her and jumped, licking at her hands and David Michael's bare feet excitedly.

"Down!" Elizabeth said sternly. "Down, Louie!"

He barked again and ran back to the kitchen, nearly bowling Charlie over.

"Mom!" he cried, and he ran at her almost as excitedly as Louie had. "Guess what?"

"What?" Elizabeth asked, noting his shining eyes and his wide smile. For a few seconds the image blurred with the helpless scene of that morning, and she foolishly dared, just for a moment, to think that Patrick had come home after all.

"Guess what I did today," Charlie said. He took David Michael into his arms with a wide grin.

"Did you play baseball?" Elizabeth asked, easing her shoes off with relief.

"Nope," Charlie said. "I helped Mr. Spier fix his car."

Elizabeth glanced toward next door. "What do you mean?"

"He asked me for help," Charlie said proudly. "He showed me how to check the oil, and _change_ the oil, and he taught me all about the radiator and how it keeps the engine cool, and he showed me how to change a flat and I used the jack and lifted a whole car up all by myself!"

"Oh, wow," Elizabeth said breathlessly. She ran her hand over Charlie's hair and smiled back at him, looking at the faint pink sunburn on his nose and the light in his eyes and the wide set of his smile.

"Mr. Spier said he's too busy, a lot of the time, to do it all," Charlie said. He hefted David Michael slightly. "He asked if I could help him out."

"I hope you said yes," Elizabeth said.

"He said he'd check with you to see if it was okay," Charlie said. "Is it okay?"

"Sure, of course it's okay," Elizabeth said. She found herself needing to clear her throat. "If you can watch David Michael for ten minutes I'll go over right now and tell him it's okay."

"Yes!" Charlie cried joyfully, bouncing a little on his feet.

Elizabeth stepped back into her shoes and escaped back out in the still summer air. Her heart was beating rapidly and she felt a warmth in her cheeks that came from trying to choke something back. Her eyes ached. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

She knocked on Richard's front door, only to alert him that she was there, before she let herself in. He was halfway down the stairs, his shirt rolled up to his elbows.

"Good evening, Edie," he said.

"Hi." She watched him come down the stairs until he was standing opposite her, and the ache in her throat grew and grew until she stepped toward him and wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders. And before she knew what she was doing, she had cupped his jaw with one hand and was pressing a hard kiss against his cheek, the stiff prickle of stubble against her lips.

His hand brushed her waist and then took hold, and he tilted his head toward her slightly, so his breath fanned down against her neck.

She kissed him for a long time, her mouth against his warm skin, her legs trembling a little as she stretched up on her toes. She kept one arm around his shoulders, her fingers curling against the loose collar of his shirt. His hands felt warm through her suit jacket, his breath fluttered soft against her neck.

When she stopped, she trailed her mouth down to his jaw, and kept her head down as she pulled back. She wasn't as embarrassed as she thought she should be, but her eyes burned with unshed tears at the thought of Charlie's smile, and her throat ached.

"I just," she started, and stopped to swallow the lump in her throat.

"I know," Richard said softly, and when she looked up at him her eyes spilled over.

"I can't teach him these things," she whispered. "And it's not – I mean... He just misses his father so much. He doesn't _want_ me to teach him these things."

"I know," Richard said again, and it hurt that he knew; it hurt to have it confirmed. (But then, of course Richard would know, because there must be days he longed for Mary Anne to have a mother to teach her things he couldn't, and he must have thought Mary Anne wished for that too.)

"Thank you," Elizabeth whispered.

He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb and smiled gently. "My pleasure." 


	31. Stop

**Title/Prompt:** Stop  
**Rating/Warnings:** R [explicit sex]  
**Word count:** 997  
**Summary:** Claudia gives in and receives what Stacey wants her to receive.

**Notes: **So last Friday was **babysitter100**'s second birthday on livejournal, and the celebrations have kind of kick-started my fic writing again, yay! This is the first f/f piece I have written in a long, long time. It does, however, violate FFN's rules, so I guess if it causes my stories to be removed, I just want to point out that there are links to my master fic lists in my profile. Every fic I've written for the BSC fandom, with ratings, word counts and summaries. They're updated whenever I post a new fic, so even if I disappear from here (and I hope I don't have to!) you can find me through those, or on AO3.

Thank you all so much for the reviews! Julianne, if you ever write that Richard/Elizabeth, let me know! There can never be enough, IMO ;p And it'd be nice to see some more diverse pairings/characters here on FFN :-/

So, again, warning for explicit sex with this one, please read responsibly!

* * *

"Stop!" Claudia yelps. Her nails dig into Stacey's shoulders and her hips twitch away, skin bare against the rumpled sheets of her bed. "Stop..." She breathes out loudly.

Stacey sits back on her heels and sweeps her hair over one shoulder, looking down at Claudia with a feeling of exasperation and frustration. "You _always_ stop me," she says.

"It's too much," Claudia says, still jittery from the feeling of Stacey's mouth against her; heart still racing. "Give me a minute."

"If you'd give _me_ a minute," Stacey said, tracing a hand down Claudia's naked thigh, "this'd be over in no time."

Claudia gives her a lazy sort of a grin, hair spread dark against her pillow. "I want this to last as long as it can."

"Just let me," Stacey breathes, promise in her words, her hands skating against Claudia's waist as she moves up the bed to kiss her mouth. "It's not like it hurts."

"I know," Claudia says self-consciously. She winds her fingers into Stacey's hair and kisses her, pulling her down until she unfolds against Claudia's body, thigh pressing between her legs, hand cupping her breast.

"You've made me come before," Stacey murmurs. "Why won't you let me do it for you?"

"It's just too much," Claudia says again. (It's embarrassing, falling so undone.)

"Please," Stacey croons. She sucks against Claudia's lip softly, thumbs tracing circles on the undersides of her breasts. Her thigh presses firm between Claudia's legs.

Claudia's nerves feel as though they've stretched too tight and fallen loose again, like they're not quite fitting where they're supposed to go, and her skin is feverish hot, her body pulsing and arching against Stacey of its own accord.

"Please," Stacey says again. "For me?"

"For you," Claudia mutters, and laughs. "Like this isn't already enough?"

Stacey grins and nuzzles against Claudia's neck, breathing in the scent of her skin, her hair. "Don't you like making me come?" she asks.

Claudia breathes a sigh against the top of Stacey's head as her mouth moves slowly over her skin. "I really like making you come," she says, eyes closed, memory tracing images of Stacey on her bed, breathless and pink with pleasure.

"So let me," Stacey says persuasively. She grasps Claudia's hips with her hands and brushes soft kisses down over her breasts, light and dry.

"I want to let you," Claudia says desperately, parting her legs as Stacey moves down the bed again, "but I just get so – I can't."

Stacey mouths against the the piercing in Claudia's navel, the green jewel sparkling in the late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains. "Claudia," she says huskily, teeth lightly marking Claudia's hip, "I'm going to keep going. I'll give you three chances, okay? Three times to stop me..."

"And on the third time, you'll stop?" Claudia asked, her mouth dry.

Stacey hummed an agreement against the crease of Claudia's thigh, feeling her pulse jump beneath warm skin. "If you say it three times," Stacey says, "I'll stop. For good." She slips her fingers between Claudia's legs, watching Claudia's hands clench against the bed.

"Okay," Claudia croaks.

"But," Stacey says, curling her fingers so that Claudia's back arches, "if you don't stop me..." She thinks for a moment, watching Claudia twitch and shiver against the touch of her hand.

"What?" Claudia asks breathlessly. "Stace..."

"Anything," Stacey promises. "You can do anything. I'll let you do anything. I know you like watching me come... Or I can do something else for you. Whatever you want."

"Stop," Claudia requests, hips bucking, fists wound tight in the sheet.

"You've got two left," Stacey warns. She presses her palms against Claudia's thighs and settles between her legs again, tasting with her eyes closed, listening to the ragged sweep of Claudia's breathing. The bedroom air is sticky and warm, closed against intrusion.

"_Fuck_," Claudia squeals, twisting her hips away. "Stacey!"

Stacey grabs her back again and twists her fingers inside, curling her tongue against wet flesh until Claudia sobs a breath and says, "Stop!"

Stacey feels a weight of disappointment settle bitter in her chest. "Once more," she says, and she holds Claudia's thighs tight with her arms, pressing with her own weight to tilt Claudia's body down and back into the mattress. Claudia's bare heels touch Stacey's back before her legs jerk again; the bed creaks beneath them and Claudia's breath is punctuated with whimpers.

Stacey has never seen Claudia come. She has never felt it, or heard it, and she can feel her own body tighten with excitement as the pitch of Claudia's breath grows higher; as her body twitches and shivers with each practised motion Stacey inflicts upon it.

"I can't," Claudia whimpers, arching her back. "I..."

Stacey bites, just gently, just grazing and pinching with her teeth, and Claudia's body twists on the bed, mouth open, breath frozen for a long heartbeat until a rush of blood courses through her body, pulling her nerves tight again, flashing orange and red behind her eyelids.

She sobs another breath, quivers as Stacey kisses her wet between her thighs, tongue soft and slow, and Claudia can feel the weight of her own body pulling her down again, her heart hammering, her breath rough in her throat.

She spasms helplessly as Stacey runs fingers up over her stomach, cups her breasts, rests her head on her shoulder. Sweat is damp and cool on Claudia's hot skin, her hair is tousled against the mattress, the pillow askew above her head.

"You can pay me back later," Stacey says, twining her fingers with Claudia's. "Or not." She looks up and smears a kiss, a smile, against Claudia's mouth. "I'm happy to get that for free."


	32. Writer's Choice: Magic

**Title/Prompt:** Magic  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG [slight adult themes]  
**Word count:** 1808  
**Summary:** John Pike: Father. Husband. Lawyer. Neighbourhood Santa Claus.

**Notes:** Another random afternoon fic sparked from squee and head!canon discussions with fandom friends. Because _of course_ John Pike is Santa. (Also omg, more parent fic. I swear I'm writing other things, not with BSC parents! They're just not done yet!)

* * *

Byron has had his nose pressed to the window for most of the morning, backing away only when the cold air seeping through the glass becomes too much to bear.

Vanessa keeps vigil with him for a while, but wanders back to the kitchen frequently to listen to Adam and Jordan quizzing Dee.

"But how does he get down the chimney?" Jordan asks.

"Magic," Dee says, pulling another tray of gingerbread from the oven. She takes her time straightening up, still feeling a little queasy from an early-morning bout of morning sickness, courtesy of baby number eight.

"Does he put the fire out?" Adam asks. "Does it burn him?"

"He puts it out and lights a new one when he leaves," Dee says.

"How does he carry all the presents?" Jordan asks.

"He's very strong," Dee says.

"Can I have a gingerbread man?" Mallory asks.

"They're not ready yet, honey, they're still hot."

Vanessa speaks up, sounding much older than her four years. "Daddy's at work," she announces, looking at Dee with a knowing expression.

"That's right," Dee says.

"But Santa's coming."

"Daddy will just have to see Santa on Christmas Eve," Dee says. "When everyone else is asleep."

Vanessa wanders back into the living room with a thoughtful expression.

"Do his reindeer _really_fly?" Jordan asks doubtfully. "Do they have wings?"

"It's magic," Dee says again. "Why don't you go and keep watch with Byron? Santa will be here soon..."

* * *

John whistles to himself as he swings the last gate open. He always saves this house for last – it's his favourite. (Though he loves them all – the Thomases were more pleased to see him than ever before, except David Michael, who screamed his head off – and Mary Anne Spier, at eight years old, was actually brave enough to hand him her letter herself this year.)

"He's here!" Byron shrieks from the living room. "Santa's here!"

John swings the door open, taking a giant stride inside, big black boots clodding on the floor. "Ho, ho, ho!" he shouts, and he waves his hands so all the bells on the cuffs of his Santa suit jangle loudly.

Margo screams and starts to cry.

Any skepticism Jordan was showing goes out the window as he bounces around in excitement, waving his letter back and forth, showering the floor with glitter.

"Santa's come to collect his letters!" John says in a deep voice. "Who has a letter for Santa?"

His children all bounce around him in delight, eyes focused on the big red suit, the big black boots, the big white beard, and less on the familiar blue eyes twinkling behind the gold spectacles sitting on his nose.

"Hello, Santa!" Dee says, arriving amongst the chaos. Margo clings to her leg.

"Mrs. Pike!" Santa says. "You get more and more beautiful every year."

"And you're as charming as ever, Santa," Dee says, grinning at him. She looks down at Margo and touches the top of her head gently. "We've all been busy writing letters, haven't we, kids?"

"I wrote mine all by myself!" Mallory says, clutching her letter to her chest breathlessly.

Santa lowers his voice a little, for Margo's sake. "I remember little Mallory Pike," he says, bending down to peer at her. "Little Mallory Pike has very, very good spelling."

Mallory's face goes bright red with pleasure. She passes her letter to him with trembling hands, and Santa places it carefully into the big red sack he's brought – already rustling with letters written by all the other neighbourhood children.

"I wrote one too," Byron says, but he dances on the spot, too nervous to come closer. "Mom helped."

"Byron Pike!" Santa says, reaching for the letter. "You're almost as tall as Santa!"

Byron gives a heady giggle and looks at Jordan with bright eyes. "Am I?"

Jordan scrutinises him for a moment. "Nope," he says. "But maybe he'll give us all magic to make us tall."

"You don't need magic, Jordan," Santa says, holding his sack out so Jordan can drop his letter in. "You're tall enough already."

Jordan stands on his toes and looks inside.

"Wow," Jordan breathes, "there's eight hundred letters in there already!"

"Let me see!" Adam demands, pushing forward. He holds his nose over the edge of the sack and drops his letter in on top of Claudia Kishi's rainbow-coloured envelope.

"And where's Vanessa?" Santa asks, standing straight again, pillowed belly out, looking around at the earnest faces gazing back at him.

Four-year-old Vanessa is half-hiding behind Dee, regarding Santa with a shrewd expression. "I'm right here," she says.

John bends down to peer at her though his glasses. "The letter you wrote me last year had such lovely handwriting, I read it _five times_," he said, holding five fingers up.

Vanessa lets go of Dee's hand, eyes wide, a wide smile lighting up her face. "Really?" she asks.

"Really," Santa says solemnly.

"It'll be even better this year, won't it, Vanessa?" Dee asks. "We've been working so hard on your letter."

"And you're not even in school yet!" Santa says. "Clever girl."

Vanessa beams and drops her letter into the sack.

Santa hefts the sack a little. "It still feels a little light," he says. "Is that everybody?"

"Nicky," Mallory says. She tugs on her brother's hand. Nicky takes two steps forward and one back, holding his letter tightly, looking up at Santa with wide eyes. Mallory leads him forward until his arm stretches out as far as it will go, sliding the letter in over the edge of the big red sack.

"Nicky Pike," Santa says proudly. "Getting braver every year."

Nicky backs away with a shy smile, clinging tightly to Mallory's hand.

Santa hefts the sack again. "Hm," he says.

"Margo hasn't put her letter in," Byron says. "She's too little. She just scratched on the paper."

"Santa can read the languages of all children," John says in his deep voice. "Even scratches."

"Wow," Jordan breathes. "Because of the magic?"

"That's right." Santa winks at him, and Dee drops Margo's letter into the sack. Margo has escaped to the safety of the bottom of the stairs, clutching the safety-gate. Mallory is trying to tempt her closer with promises Santa won't hurt.

"Hmmm," Santa says thoughtfully, pulling the drawstring on the sack closed. "It still feels a little light."

"But we all put our letters in," Adam says.

"What about you, Mrs. Pike?" Santa asks, raising a bushy white eyebrow at her. "What would you like for Christmas?"

"Another healthy baby," Dee says, patting her stomach.

Santa gasps. "Pregnant again?" His eyes twinkle. "That husband of yours sounds like a rogue."

"Can't turn my back on him for two seconds," Dee says mischievously.

"Mrs. Pike?" Santa asks, a positively wicked gleam in his eye now. "Is Mr. Pike home?"

"He had to work," Byron informs him, gazing up at Santa adoringly. "He said to say hi."

"Tell him hi from me, too," Santa says. "Give him my best regards. He's a great man, your daddy."

"He certainly thinks he is," Dee says, returning the cheeky look she can see beneath the beard on her husband's face. "He'll be sorry he missed you."

"Do you think," Santa says, slinging his sack over his shoulder with a swing that almost topples the coat rack, "he'd mind if Santa gave you a kiss, Mrs. Pike?"

"Don't do it, Mom," Mallory gasps, mortified. "Dad might find out!"

"I don't think he'll mind," Dee says assuringly. "He and Santa are very good friends."

"They are?" Nicky asks rapturously.

"There's mistletoe," Adam says helpfully, pointing above Santa's head. "That means it doesn't count."

"That's right!" Santa says. "Mr. Pike can't possibly mind if it's a mistletoe kiss."

Vanessa's eyes narrow, and she gives Santa another knowing look.

"Come here then, Santa," Dee says, grabbing the bottom of his beard and tugging gently.

"Is his beard real?" Jordan whispers loudly.

John kisses Dee, wrapping his free arm around her waist and lifting her off her feet. She gives a squeal and laughs against his shoulder. "Put me down, brute," she says. "Or I'll tell Mr. Pike you did more than just kiss me."

"You never know," John mutters against her ear. "He might be into that."

She laughs and thumps her fist against his chest. "You need to get back to the North Pole," she says. "You need to read all of those letters before Christmas Eve."

"And your elves have to make the toys!" Byron says.

"Ho, ho, ho!" Santa cries, swinging the front door open again. "Merry Christmas, Pikes!"

* * *

"Santa said to say hi," Byron says drowsily, rubbing his eyes once his head has emerged through his pyjamas.

"He did?" John asks, guiding his arms through the sleeves. "Did he say nice things about your letter?"

Byron nods, and John pushes him gently towards his bed. Adam and Nicky are already sleeping. Jordan gives a loud whisper as John goes to turn out the light.

"Dad," he says, "do you really know Santa?"

"I sure do," John says. "Why?"

"Do you know magic?"

"I'm afraid not, Jordan."

"Oh," Jordan says, clearly disappointed. He rolls over.

John shuts the door and stops off at the girls' room. Margo is asleep in the crib in the corner. John can only see the very top of Mallory's head, the rest of her burrowed right in under the comforter.

Vanessa looks wide awake.

"Time for sleep, Vanessa," John says.

"Daddy," Vanessa says. She beckons to him seriously. He bends over her bed. "I need to ask something."

"Shoot," John says.

Vanessa whispers softly, so he has to bend further to her, his head tilted.

"How do you fit down the chimney?" she asks.

He chuckles and pulls the comforter up around her shoulders. "Santa uses magic to get down the chimney," he says.

Vanessa sighs thoughtfully, but doesn't ask anything else. John kisses her brow and shuts the light off, leaving the door ajar.

Dee's sitting up in bed, waiting for him. She grins when he closes the door. "Hello, Santa."

"Hello, Mrs. Pike." John crawls across the bed to kiss her. "A little early for bed, isn't it?"

"The house is nice and quiet, after several longs days of waiting for the North Pole's mail man," Dee says, raising her eyebrow. "I want to enjoy the peace."

"I'm not sure your chances of that are much good," John says, dragging her down the bed by her hips.

Dee laughs and grabs the headboard. "I'm already pregnant," she says.

"We're just doing this for the magic," John says.


	33. Silk

**Title/Prompt:** Silk  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG [slight adult themes]  
**Word count:** 7740  
**Summary:** _"I just didn't want to get married. We were 22 when you gave me that ring, and I was so scared. All I could think about was how much my mom and dad hate each other now, and they were in love, once. Enough to get married. Now they can't even be in the same room together."_

Stacey asks Robert to be her date to a wedding, but it reopens old wounds and forces her to deal with her regret.

**Notes:** Look! I _am_ apparently capable of writing something that's not parent!fic. And it's Stacey/Robert! YAY! This universe is ridiculously developed inside my head. It's entirely possible it will be revisited at some point, though I'm a little self-conscious about certain aspects of it. Still, whatever! I'll see what happens. Thank you to _miss_slipslop _for beta'ing.

**Also**, I feel a little stupid that it took me this long, but I've added some info about the babysitters100 challenge to my FFN profile. If you want to try something new in 2013, anyone is welcome to join us! If the info I've got in my profile isn't enough, or you have any questions, feel free to PM me :) I can't talk enough about babysitters100! And, if it's not already obvious, I'm not the only one completing the challenge - there is a _lot_ of fic out there just dying to be read!

Once again, dear readers, thank you so much for your reviews, etc! This is probably the last piece you'll see from me in 2012, as I'm participating in fandom_stocking again, and my next prompts will all be gifts to people. They'll be posted sometime in the second week of January :) So, until then, happy holidays and I'll see you next year! :) xx

* * *

Stacey's eyes watered as another sharp gust of wind sent blossoms scattering across the street, little pink petals catching in her hair like confetti. The coffee shop on the corner shone like a beacon beneath the cloudy promise of rain, the windows rattling whenever the wind funnelled down the street.

Robert was waiting for her, his jacket slung over the chair he had saved for her, a cup of coffee already in front of him. He grinned when he saw her, stood up so she could step into his arms and squeeze him tightly.

"Hi," Stacey breathed happily.

"Hey, Toots." His mouth brushed her cold cheek. "You okay?"

"Fine." She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply against his shoulder, letting go of him slowly, her nervousness dissolving into nothing.

He smiled at her, a move which still made a shiver pass down her spine, and plucked blossoms out of her hair. "You want something to eat?"

"No, just tea." She sat opposite him and unwound her scarf as he motioned the waitress over. "It's so cold out," Stacey complained. "It's like winter all over again out there."

"Did you get my birthday card?" Robert asked suddenly.

"Uh-huh." Stacey smiled at him. "Thanks. I'll try to remember yours this year."

He raised both eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. "Fourteen years we've known each other, Stace," he said. "And you've remembered my birthday three times."

"Four!" she argued.

He laughed and rested his folded arms against the table, leaning towards her. He waited until her tea had been set down in front of her, watched her breathe in the ripe scent of it. "So what's up?" he asked.

Stacey gave him a fleeting smile and shook her head. "Nothing's wrong," she said. "I'm okay. I just wanted to ask you something."

"And you couldn't ask over the phone?" he asked.

"Not really," Stacey said. "I mean, I could." She glanced up at him. "But it's been ages since I saw you. So I called, and you said were free and you could meet for coffee..." She shrugged.

Robert pushed his coffee aside and reached for her hand. "Spill it, McGill."

"It's nothing bad," she insisted. "Not really. And you can say no, because... Because it might be weird."

He lowered his voice, tugging her hands closer. "Do you want me to service you sexually?"

"Oh, God," Stacey said, pulling her hands free. She tried to give him a look of disgust, but ended up giggling instead.

He grinned at her again and she laughed and swept her hair back. "No, that's not what I want," she said. "It's – Laine is getting married."

"Yeah," Robert murmured, catching her hands again. "I heard about that."

Stacey glanced at him. "I need a date..." The last word was a croak, and she looked away for a moment, embarrassed.

Robert opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

"You can say no," Stacey said, rushing to excuse his imminent refusal. "I know it might be weird, going to a wedding with me, after what happened..." She trailed off, focusing instead on holding his hands, her fingers nestled in the warmth of his palms.

Robert hesitated. "It might be weird," he agreed.

"That's okay," Stacey said hastily. "I'll find someone else. I just thought – I mean, I don't really want to go. And I just thought it'd be easier if I had someone... Like you..." The words felt awkward and she cleared her throat, swallowed hard.

"It's just..." Robert thought for a moment, looking down at their hands. "Everyone we know will be there," he said carefully.

"I know," Stacey said, wishing she'd never asked, guilt roiling hot in her stomach.

"Mike's only just stopped calling about poker nights," Robert said tiredly. "Seeing him again will just start it up again."

"Is poker really that bad?" Stacey asked.

"No, it's just... too much, being friends with people I shared with you." He glanced at her, looking guilty. "I give in now and then. Paul and I catch a basketball game when we can. I keep an overnight bag in the trunk of my car for when I get stuck in the city."

"I don't see them much anymore, either," Stacey said.

"Why not?" Robert asked in surprise. "They were your friends first."

"Yeah, but..." She shrugged. "I'm alone now. Angela has Paul and Jennifer has Mike, and Laine comes and goes with different guys, and I'm not with you, and it's... hard. And they'll all be at the wedding, so I just thought..."

He looked up at her and she felt a twinge in her chest when she saw the look in his eyes. "I'm just not sure it's a good idea," he said softly.

"Yeah," Stacey agreed. "Sorry. Forget I asked."

Robert's thumb traced a line on the palm of her hand. "When is it?" he asked. "Laine's wedding."

"The first Saturday in May," Stacey said. She let go of his hand and rummaged in her purse, pulling out the invitation, all silver card and loopy font. "She makes a big deal of it being a millennium wedding."

"Would I have to wear a futuristic silver spacesuit?" Robert asked, looking it over with a concentrated furrow in his brow.

Stacey laughed and pulled her tea towards her again. "I don't think so." She narrowed her eyes at him over her cup. "It'd be hard to look good in one of those."

"I dunno, I think I could pull it off," Robert said. "Who's this guy she's marrying? When we were together," he glanced at Stacey, "she was with that Ben guy."

Stacey shrugged. "I've never met him. Jennifer said his father owns a chain of hotels."

"Typical," Robert muttered. He passed the invitation back.

"So I'll – I'll find someone else," Stacey said, suddenly unsure. "I just thought – you know. Maybe if you came with me they wouldn't ask about you, they'd just... I don't know." She shrugged and shook her head. "It'll just be weird with everyone else there, and me being there with someone who isn't you."

Robert's fingers grazed against her wrist. "You won't have any trouble getting a date."

"Getting one I _like_ might be a bit of a problem," Stacey admitted. Her pulse jumped, and she sandwiched Robert's hand between her own, stilling the light strokes he was making against her skin. Her mouth was dry. "Are you seeing anyone?" she asked hesitantly.

"No." He ran his free hand through his dark hair, and Stacey had to stop herself from reaching over and combing it back into place with her fingers.

"We're friends, aren't we?" Stacey asked desperately. "We could just go as friends."

"Could we?" He raised his eyebrow slightly, a wry smile on his face. "Does this feel like friendship?" He motioned between them.

Stacey let go of his hand, sliding her fingers over his palm until they were curled at the edge of the table, her tea cooling rapidly in front of her. "I don't know," she admitted.

He rubbed his hand against his jaw and leaned his elbow against the table, resting his chin in his palm and looking at her. "Let me think about it," he said eventually. "No promises."

* * *

Stacey stepped back from the bathroom mirror, blinking at her reflection, before she ran to answer the knock at the door, stockinged feet sliding on the floorboards. "Hi."

Robert glanced her up and down, eyes lingering on the bare skin revealed by her loosely-belted bathrobe. "We haven't even been out yet, and I still get to see you in your underwear," he said, stepping in and closing the door behind him.

"Shut up," Stacey said, swatting his arm. She tugged the robe back up over her shoulder and padded back to the bathroom. "I'll only be a minute. I just want to check my blood sugar."

"And get dressed," Robert said, helpfully.

"And get dressed," she answered, fingertips electric, nerves buzzing. She checked her sugar quickly, and was satisfied to see it was right where it should have been. She stepped in front of the mirror again and finished her make up – just a light dusting of powder and a sweep of mascara, a touch of coloured gloss on her lips.

She stepped into her dress and hitched it up around her shoulders, pacing back into the living room. "Zip me up?"

Robert's fingers brushed bare skin between her shoulder blades as he closed the zip. "New dress?"

She looked at him over her shoulder. "Uh-huh."

His fingertips slid over the material, smooth and silk-like under his touch, and Stacey shivered. He laughed and took a step back.

"Behave yourself," Stacey said.

He put his hands in his pockets and nodded to the painting on the wall. "This is different," he said.

"Benefits of having Ms. Kishi as a best friend," Stacey said. "Constantly changing artworks on my walls." She watched him for a moment, noting the way his eyes searched her apartment, looking for other differences she'd made since his last visit.

She cleared her throat softly. "I'll be back in a second." She left him again for the bedroom, where she rummaged through her jewellery box for earrings. She stepped into a pair of black pumps, checking her reflection again. Her dress was fitted and blue, the silky material boasting a peacock sheen under the warm lights of her bedroom, fine black lace edging the hem and forming the cap sleeves. She swallowed, and stepped back into the living room, noticing another loaded glance from Robert.

"How do I look?" she asked, striking a pose, attempting to banish the awkward lump in her throat with a joke.

He didn't joke back; his smile was sad. "Beautiful," he said softly.

* * *

Stacey watched Laine walk past them down the aisle, her dress gleaming white, trimmed in silver, deliberate curls bouncing dark against the back of her neck. Stacey felt a twinge in her stomach as she noted the look on Laine's face, her smile wide and her eyes shining as she approached the man she was about to marry.

With a rustle and a murmur of appreciation, the crowd sat. A microphone crackled and failed, the faint murmur of voices drifting back to where Stacey was crammed against Robert in a narrow pew. She watched the bridesmaids, unable to see the bride, saw them wipe away tears as the bride and groom declared their love.

"Are you okay?" Robert asked in a low whisper, his breath brushing her ear.

Stacey looked up at him in surprise, and he twitched his thumb against hers. She looked down and noticed her knuckles were white. She forced her fingers open again, noting the angry marks she'd left on his skin, and nodded silently.

* * *

"Stacey, you made it!" Laine was breathless, her smile wide and gleaming.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Stacey said. She hugged Laine gingerly. "Congratulations."

"And Robert!" Laine said excitedly. "I wasn't going to believe it until I _actually_ saw you with my own two eyes..." She let go of Stacey and presented her cheek for a kiss.

"Congratulations, Laine," Robert said, obliging her by brushing his lips against her skin. "You look beautiful."

Laine took Stacey's left hand, her thumb glancing over Stacey's bare finger, but someone else hugged her from behind and started up a conversation before she could speak. Stacey pulled free and took the opportunity to escape.

"That could have been worse," Robert said, following her.

Stacey raised an eyebrow at him, hugging herself. "I guess."

"Come on, she's going to be so busy all night we won't see her again. There are 400 other people here she has to mingle with; she has no time to quiz us on our relationship."

Stacey smoothed her palms over her hips. "You're probably right." She looked up at him, suddenly feeling guilty. "I didn't really think this through," she admitted.

"I didn't think you had." He grinned at her, moving closer to let someone pass, squeals and loud adoration following the bride as she moved away, drawn on by further faces and smiles.

"Well," Stacey said, shrugging slightly, "I thought coming alone would be terrible. I didn't really think about the consequences for you, if you agreed to come..." She bit her lip and glanced around.

"I'm sure we'll survive," Robert said.

Stacey caught sight of a short brunette weaving determinedly through the crowd towards them. She swallowed dryly. "You said that too soon."

Jennifer hugged them both at once, sandwiching them together awkwardly. "Stacey McGill and Robert Brewster!"

"Hi, Jen," Robert said, catching her hand and squeezing it, rather than returning the clumsy embrace she'd given him.

Stacey felt a twist in her stomach. Sweat broke out on her palms as she tried to prepare herself for the questions Jennifer would inevitably ask.

"So you're back together?" Jennifer asked excitedly. "Are you engaged again? You should both come over for dinner next week. Mike's organised a poker night with a few of the guys from the firm, you could both –"

"I'm on night shift next week," Robert said, sounding sincerely apologetic. "Maybe another time."

"Shoot," Jennifer said, pouting in disappointment. "Well, give us a call when you're free. Have you set a date yet?"

"Um, no," Robert said, faltering for a moment. He glanced at Stacey, and she opened her mouth wordlessly, and closed it again. Panic forced a familiar old guilt up inside her.

She caught sight of an open door out onto the balcony, and gave Jennifer an apologetic smile, motioning as though she'd seen someone else, before she slipped away. Robert would hate her – _hate_ her for leaving him alone like that, fumbling for defences and excuses, but she left him anyway, escaping out into the golden light of the setting sun.

The air was slightly bitter with cigarettes and busy with the hum of excited voices. Stacey glanced around, recognising none of the faces, and stole herself a corner of railing, letting the wind whip her carefully-pinned hair into stray ribbons.

He would hate her. She should go back. She looked back through the doors, but the crowd had closed behind her, blocking Robert and Jennifer from view. She wondered what answers he would give; what he would say about her, and bit her lip when she realised he was entitled to say a lot of unflattering things about her, but would never. (She didn't think.)

He found her ten minutes later, and his jaw was tight. "You've got some nerve, McGill."

"I'm sorry," she said. She reached for him, but he kept his hands in his pockets. She closed her fingers around his wrist. "I am, Robert. I'm sorry."

He shook his head, his eyes looking everywhere but her, searching the shadows cast by the late sunlight. "I don't know why I keep answering your calls," he said eventually, and it was like driving ice right through her chest.

"Robert..."

"Because I want..." He frowned and swallowed.

Stacey drew his hand out of his pocket and gripped it hard. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I won't do that again." She reached up and kissed his cheek softly, running careful fingertips through his dark hair.

"Did you ask me here for some particular reason?" he asked, still annoyed. "Was it for that? To be the distraction while you run away and hide?"

"No," Stacey said, miserably. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder, not caring about smudging her make up off onto the dark charcoal of his suit. "I don't know. When I got the invitation, I had all these images in my head of everyone looking at me and just..." She blew a sigh and closed her eyes, leaning her weight against him. "I hate weddings," she said in a small voice. "I just thought it'd be easier with you here."

"How, exactly?" Robert asked, his mouth against the top of her head.

Stacey swallowed. "I don't know. I guess I thought... I don't know. There's no reason it'd be easier. I just wanted you here."

He sighed. "This is officially the last favour I'm ever giving you."

"Okay." She tilted her head and looked up at him, relieved when she saw his eyes were soft. "Do you hate me?" she asked.

"Sometimes," he said, and the ice twisted in her heart. "Not right now."

She combed her fingers through his hair again, and he closed his eyes. "What did you say to Jennifer?" she asked.

"Nothing, much. I asked her a lot of questions and hoped she wouldn't realise I hadn't given her any answers."

"Is that a cop trick?"

"Cop trick," he confirmed. His hands flattened out over the small of her back, his touch warm through the thin silk of her dress. "I'm not expecting to avoid her for much longer, though. She'll hunt us down."

"I know."

His fingers curled against her hip, tracing thrills through her dress to her skin. "I'm slightly disappointed to learn you still hate weddings," he said after a moment, his mouth brushing her brow.

"Did you really think that would change?" Stacey asked. "After..."

"I guess not." His hold tightened on her just slightly, and she closed her eyes. "I don't like weddings as much as I used to."

"Sorry," Stacey whispered.

He laughed, though it didn't sound natural. His hands cupped her hips, thumbs stroking circles. "Do you think our wedding would have been like this?"

"No," Stacey retorted immediately. "I have better taste than this."

"Explain," Robert demanded, his voice against her hair.

"It would have been much smaller, for a start," Stacey said, swaying with him gently. "Laine's invited people she can't have seen in fifteen years. There's no way I'd want to get married in front of a crowd like this."

"Me either," Robert agreed. "Where would we have the ceremony?"

"Somewhere outside," Stacey said, closing her eyes, conjuring up a scene she'd imagined a thousand times, rolling green lawns and fall foliage. "Somewhere upstate, maybe."

"Oh yeah?"

"I hear the policemen are pretty good looking up around Poughkeepsie," Stacey said, and she rested her mouth against the hollow of Robert's throat, smiling when he laughed.

"Maybe we wouldn't even tell people we were getting married," she said. "Maybe they'd think it was a birthday party, and they'd arrive and we'd surprise them with a ceremony."

"Your birthday party?" Robert asked. "So all the presents would be for you, and I'd get nothing."

"You'd get a wife," Stacey said indignantly.

He laughed again and pulled back, tucking a loose strand of smooth hair behind her ear, his thumb tracing the swell of her cheek. "Don't you dare leave me alone like that again," he said softly. "Answering the questions you don't want to."

"I won't," she said meekly.

"I mean it, Stace. That's not fair."

"I know," she said. "I won't. I'm sorry." She held his palm against her cheek. "I panicked."

He leaned in, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Her stomach swooped and she felt her knees give a little, following the movement just slightly to sway against him.

"Why'd you bring me?" he asked again. "Why not some other guy? Don't tell me you couldn't find someone else to be your date..."

She looked up at him helplessly and shrugged. "I didn't want some other guy," she whispered. "You could have said no."

"Right," he said, and he shook his head. "Because I say 'no' to you all the time."

She rested her head against his shoulder again and closed her eyes against the ripe beams of the dying sun, listened to the chaotic chords of the band striking up a song. "If it helps," she said, "everyone always takes your side. I'm not the one that gets the sympathy or the pity."

"I don't really want sympathy or pity," he mumbled. He swayed her again, half in time to the music bleeding over the murmur of the crowd around them. His palm slipped over her back. "It's nobody else's business," he added.

"That doesn't stop them commenting on it," Stacey said miserably. She shuffled her feet and kept her face hidden against his shoulder. "I guess I imagined it'd be easier if you were here. Like people would just comment to themselves about us being here together and not actually say anything. Like maybe it'd hold them all at bay, just seeing you didn't hate me..."

"They think I hate you?" he asked.

Stacey looked up at him. "I tell them we're still friends, but they don't see it. And they don't believe it, either, because how could you still be friends with me after I broke your heart."

"You're giving yourself a little too much credit," Robert said.

"Am I?"

His thumb slipped under the sleeve of her dress, and he didn't answer her.

* * *

"We're due in late November." Angela patted her stomach, her eyes sparkling. "We're only just starting to tell people."

"Congratulations, Angela," Stacey said, smiling warmly. She sent a glance to Robert, but he had his back to her, a glass of something in his hand, and Paul's hand was on his shoulder, the conversation peppering rapidly. Jennifer was standing beside him, but watching Stacey shrewdly.

Angela followed Stacey's eyes, and turned back to her, the smile on her face a little unsure now. "So you and Robert are back together?" she asked.

"Not – not really," Stacey said. "But we both know Laine, and..." She shrugged. "He's just my date tonight."

"It wouldn't be the end of the world if you reconciled, you know," Angela teased. "Paul's been missing all those long talks about the NBA."

"So I see," Stacey said, a smile twitching the corners of her mouth. "But we're just friends."

It was exhausting, Stacey realised, being friends with so many couples. Angela and Paul were expecting their first baby, and Jen and Mike were saving for a house somewhere outside the city so _they_ could start a family. Stacey was still trying to catch a promotion at the brokerage, her sights set more on decorating her apartment than starting a family; dinner dates with Claudia rather than potential husbands.

"What do you think of Laine's dress?" Angela asked.

Stacey shrugged slightly and smiled. "She looks gorgeous."

Angela glanced her up and down. "You'd need something more fitted," she said. "Strapless would suit you. Or something like what you're wearing now." She touched the shoulder of Stacey's dress. "Is this silk?"

"I'm not – we're not getting married," Stacey insisted.

"But he'll ask again, right?" Angela asked. "I bet he still has the ring."

Stacey jumped as Robert caught her hand. "Come and dance," he insisted. He pulled her after him, not waiting for an answer.

* * *

"Hey, Robert?" Stacey asked against his ear.

"Hm?"

"Do you think we could just leave?"

He looked down at her in surprise. "Now?"

Stacey shrugged and looked around. "We've both seen Laine. She's still caught up trying to talk to everyone; I doubt she'll notice if we leave early. At least she knows we came. And whenever we step off the dance floor, Angela and Jennifer corner me and ask about _our_ wedding." She tightened her arms around his shoulders. "And my feet hurt too much to keep using it as an escape."

"It's still early."

"I don't care." She brushed her lips against his throat. "Take me home?"

* * *

Stacey kicked her shoes off as soon as she'd crossed the threshold into her apartment, groaning with relief as she curled her stockinged toes against the floorboards.

"Better?" Robert asked. He pulled his tie loose and popped a couple of buttons on his shirt, opening the collar.

"Yeah," Stacey sighed. She rubbed her eyes. "Just let me – I need something to eat," she said. "Do you want anything?"

Robert shook his head. "I should probably just – just go," he said.

Stacey stopped, halfway between the door and the fridge, her heart in her throat. She looked back at him. "Why?"

"Well, why not?" he asked, sounding annoyed. "What's supposed to happen now, Stacey?"

She shrugged wordlessly, eyes wide.

"You know," he said, leaning his back against the door, "you were right when you said people pitied me. But it's not because you gave the engagement ring back. It's because everyone expects I'll keep trying to put it back on your finger. Like I'm stuck chasing after you for the rest of my life. And I guess tonight I proved everyone right, because why else would I subject myself to _that_." He grimaced and shook his head. "I can't do anything like that again, Stacey."

She paced towards him and caught hold of his sleeve. "Don't go," she blurted.

"Why can't you just let me," he whispered. His eyes were dark and gleaming.

"It's not fair," Stacey croaked, suddenly fighting tears. "I gave the ring back and I'm the bitch – but _you're_ the one that left." She swiped a fist over her cheek, smearing wet tears across her skin. "I didn't want to get married, Robert, but I didn't want to break up."

His fingers twitched at his sides, grasping at nothing.

"We're still friends," Stacey croaked. "We talk all the time." She swallowed and took another step towards him. Her voice was small and pathetic."You still call me Toots."

"I forget," Robert said roughly, "how it feels to be with you. And my life is pretty good. I like my job and I've got a nice place, you know? I've got friends that don't know you – friends that are just mine, who like me because I'm Robert. And then you call and I hear your voice and those things don't matter anymore. Only you matter."

She brushed her thumb against his lashes, felt moisture against her skin.

"I hate that," he admitted. His voice was hard, his throat locked against a gasp she was sure he needed but dared not take. "I hate that you matter so much more to me than I do to you."

"You do matter to me," Stacey said, hating that she was crying, because it seemed like a ploy for sympathy. "Robert, I just didn't want to get married. We were 22 when you gave me that ring, and I was so scared. All I could think about was how much my mom and dad hate each other now, and they were in love, once. Enough to get married. Now they can't even be in the same room together."

"You really think you and I will finish up like that?"

She wiped her eyes. "We're like this now," she said, clinging to her him with one hand. "Do you hate me now? Right this minute?"

"No," he said patiently. "But I'm wondering if it would be easier if I did."

"Please stay," Stacey said. "Just for a little while. I don't want to fight with you and have you leave." She curled her fingers at the open neck of his shirt.

He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. "You need to have something to eat," he said. "I've got an overnight bag in the car. It's in the parking garage down the street. I'll go and get it."

Stacey shoved her feet back into her shoes and gripped his hand. "I'm coming."

"Stace..."

She looked up at him, and he sighed tiredly and led her out of the apartment again, waiting as she grabbed her keys and pulled the door closed.

* * *

Stacey's heels clacked on the cement floor of the garage. She felt strangely light-headed, and knew she really did need have something to eat, something more than a plateful of bland-tasting canapés. Crying had left her feeling off-balance and stupid, but it had been something that had built up ever since receiving the wedding invitation in the mail.

Laine was married. Stacey and Robert were supposed to be married.

She wondered if regret felt like this – light and strange.

"You okay?" Robert asked. He popped the trunk of his car and hauled his bag out with one hand, his other still caught in Stacey's fingers.

"Just tired, I think," she said. "It's been a long day."

"Right." He closed the trunk, and they turned and walked back the way they'd come, the garage silent and dark around them. "Did the wedding make you feel weird, too?"

"Yeah," she admitted quietly. "I was – I kept thinking about us."

"Me too."

She nodded, remembering his arms around her as they'd swayed on the rooftop, her descriptions of their imaginary ceremony seeming foolish and crass now.

They emerged back onto the sidewalk, and Stacey shivered a little and gripped Robert's hand. "I'm sorry I asked you to come," she said after a moment. "You drove all the way here and then had a really shit time."

"It hasn't been completely shit." He looked down at her and hefted the bag on his shoulder. "I got to see you in your underwear."

She smiled and punched his shoulder.

"And you look beautiful," he added. "Right now, I mean."

"Not right now," she said, fingers fluttering at the swollen skin around her eyes, her nose still watery.

"Right now," he insisted. He glance down at her again and his pace slowed a little, his shoes scuffing the ground. "Did you really want to stay together?" he asked, the words running together thickly. "You just didn't want the ring?"

Stacey shrugged uncomfortably and watched a cab pass by them, bouncing slightly over an uneven patch in the street. "I don't know. I didn't want to get married, but I didn't want you to leave, either. I thought getting married would cause you to leave, eventually. I thought saying no would somehow save us from a mistake and an eventual divorce. But it didn't save us at all."

"Stacey," Robert said, exasperated, "the first time I kissed you, we were in _middle school_. It was ten years after that I proposed to you. Five years after that, and now look where we are." He held up their joined hands and shrugged. "Are we ever really gonna be broken up? Really? Completely separated?"

"I don't know," she said, confused. "This is – we're not together. We've just spent a whole evening explaining to people we're not together."

"Why aren't we together?" he asked, his voice demanding, his eyes dark under the streetlight.

She pulled her hand out of his and folded her arms across her chest. "I don't know," she said. "Because you wanted to get married, and I didn't."

"I only want to get married to you," he said. "And if you still don't want to get married, I guess settling for a life with you and no rings on our fingers is the next best thing."

She stared at him, but before she could say anything he frowned at her and grabbed her hand again.

"Come on," he said. "You're pale. You need to eat something."

* * *

Stacey fixed herself a plate of carrot sticks and pretzels, and sank onto the couch beside Robert, forcing herself to eat. "Are you still mad?" she asked.

He looked at her tiredly. "About tonight?"

"Just in general."

He shook his head, slumping down on the couch a little. "Just tired."

Stacey felt guilty for wanting him to stay. She stared at him for a long moment.

"Something else is different," he said, looking around her apartment. "Have you painted?"

"No. I don't think that armchair was here last time you visited."

"No, that's not it..." He looked around and shrugged. "It's weird only coming by here every few months. Little things shift around."

Stacey tucked her legs up under her. "I've never been to your place."

"Yeah." He reached over and took a carrot stick off her plate. "It's nothing special."

She tried to picture it in her head. Robert's place, all full of him, nothing of her. She looked around her apartment and realised she still half-thought of it as his. Memories of him were shadowed in every corner; the bathroom cabinet still held a half-empty bottle of aftershave she couldn't seem to throw out.

"Hey," he said suddenly, "I know you accuse me of thinking with my stomach, you know, but the food at that wedding was really terrible, wasn't it?"

She laughed. "Yeah." She held her plate towards him and he took a pretzel with a grin.

"We should've just stayed in," Robert sighed.

"No, I like getting dressed up," Stacey said. She unfolded her legs and pressed her feet against his knee. "And the dancing was nice."

"Yeah," he agreed quietly. His hand found her ankle and his thumb stroked over the silken web of her stocking slowly.

"And we found out Angela and Paul are having a baby," Stacey added. "I didn't know that."

"No, me either," Robert said. "Good for them."

Stacey nodded, but the silence kept settling around them, awkward and sad.

"You feel better?" Robert asked, looking over once she'd finished her snack.

"Yeah." She reached over and put the empty plate on the coffee table, and when she curled up on the couch again, it was close to him, by his side, and her head found his shoulder. "I know I asked a lot of you tonight," she admitted. "It means a lot to me that you came and held my hand and made my night not as terrible as it might have been." She looked up at him.

His lips brushed the end of her nose. "Don't ask me to do it again."

"I won't."

He smiled, and she smiled back helplessly, unable to stop herself.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" she asked softly.

"Suppose so."

"At the wedding, I asked if you hated me," she said. "You said sometimes." She blinked up at him. "Do you love me? Ever?"

His hand curled over her thigh, fingers sliding for the lace hem of her dress. "All the time," he whispered. "Even when I hate you, I love you."

"Do you still want to marry me?"

He swallowed, but his gaze was steady. "Yes." His hand curled over the edge of her dress, and stilled. "But even if you said yes, right now, I wouldn't."

Stacey felt her heart sink, a sharp pain striking her chest. "Why not?"

"Because you don't really want to. It'd make you unhappy."

"I was just _scared_," Stacey said breathlessly. She closed her eyes when Robert's fingers slipped against her knee. "I don't want to end up like my parents."

"You really think we would?" He reached up with his other hand and brushed her hair back. "Why wouldn't we end up like my parents?"

"Because it's me," she said. "I'd screw it up."

"I wouldn't let you," he said.

She pressed her cheek against his arm. "You left."

"I thought you wanted me to!" he argued. "You never told me not to. You never told me you wanted me to stay." He shifted on the couch, turning his body to face her. "And," he said, "that was five years ago. And a lot has happened since then."

"Yeah." Stacey rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand, smearing mascara on her skin. "We're different people now."

"Not so different." He rubbed a tear into her skin with his thumb.

Stacey leaned into his touch, curling her legs up under her and kneeling over him, her fingertips against his face. "I'd say yes, if you asked," she whispered. "If you asked now."

"But I'm not asking."

"But if you did. I'd say yes."

* * *

Stacey emerged from the bathroom, hair unpinned, face free of make up. Robert was by the window in the living room, feet bare and cuffs loose against his wrists.

"Everything okay?" He looked over at her, his voice soft in the dark.

"Yeah." She raked her hands through her hair and stood beside him, looking down into the street.

"I'll take the couch," he said.

She leaned up against his chest, fists tight against the open neck of his shirt, and kissed him. He didn't hesitate, like she thought he would. He didn't pull away and tell her it was a mistake. Instead, his hands settled on her hips and he pulled her close, ducked his head to meet her, opened his mouth against hers.

She pulled his shirt out of his pants and touched his skin, hands against his waist. His fingers skated up the smooth silk of her dress, catching for a moment between her shoulder blades before he peeled it open, his palm sliding down the arch of her spine.

He broke the kiss and gasped a soft laugh against her cheek. "And what happens tomorrow, Stace?"

She didn't know, really. She didn't want him to leave – ever – but things couldn't be as simple to fix as that. She didn't really believe he could forgive her for what had happened, and after tonight...

"I don't know," she whispered.

"I should have just said no," he murmured, his eyes closed, his breath warm on her skin. "That day in the coffee shop when you asked me to be your date. I should've just said no."

"I'm sorry I asked you," she said. "I ask a lot of you sometimes. Especially after how I've treated you."

He rocked against her, hands sliding over the loose silk of her dress to pull her closer. "I still love you," he groaned. "I hate that I still love you so much. I don't want to love you anymore, Stacey."

She felt tears fall. She pressed against his neck, leaning against him on her toes, one arm around his shoulders to support her own weight, the other up under his shirt, knuckles brushing the small of his back. "I never wanted you to leave me," she said in a small voice. "I gave the ring back because I thought things were good the way they were. And then you left and I thought maybe it was just meant to be that way. But I should have explained everything back then, and I'm sorry. I was just scared. I thought there was something wrong with me; I thought you'd be better off going to find someone who _did_ want to marry you."

"But I only want you," he whispered. He looked down at her, the tip of his nose brushing hers, his lashes low. "And if I asked you now..."

"I'd say yes," she whispered. She waited, hoping.

"And then what?"

She faltered, but held his gaze. "And then..."

"Where would we live?"

"I – I don't know." Her heart started racing. It wasn't that she hadn't thought about it, just that she didn't have an answer. She hastened to say something; Robert's grasp on her had loosened and she snuggled closer to him. "You could get a job here again," she said. "You can do your job in more places than I can do mine; my job keeps me here in the city. But I don't want our kids to grow up in an apartment building, either, I want our kids to have a yard and a place to ride bikes..." She looked up at him. "I don't know, but we can figure it out, Robert."

He cupped her face in his hand and she leaned into his palm.

"Don't go," she said softly. "I miss you. I love you."

He stroked his thumb down her nose. "You don't say that very often," he said. "I say it more than you do."

She blinked. "I do, though. I love you. And what you said before – about not marrying me but living with me anyway, because that was better than not being with me at all – I'd marry you to keep you, Robert. And I'd be happy. Just afraid."

"Of what?" he asked, sounding slightly exasperated. "Marriage is supposed to mean the _opposite_ of the end, Toots."

She smiled at the nickname and pulled him down to kiss her. "I know."

He kissed her back, light kisses, soft and dry on her mouth, her cheek. "This is it, then," he whispered. "Are we starting again?"

"Please?" Stacey asked. She hooked her fingers into his belt and tugged his hips to her. "I love you Robert; I do. You're not the only one that got heartbroken by all this. There's been nobody since you. And I tried, because everyone said I should, but I never stopped loving you and I know it was a mistake, giving you that ring back. I ended up creating the situation I wanted to avoid."

"So let's start again," he said, and his fingers trailed a determined path down to the small of her back. "And let's take it slow and figure out exactly what we want."

"Okay," Stacey breathed in relief. "Okay."

* * *

Stacey felt the mattress shift beside her, and she rolled over in a panic, eyes flying open. "Oh," she breathed in relief, spotting Robert.

He raised his eyebrows. "Expecting someone else?"

She fell back into her pillow and laughed. "No." She curled her fingers into the hair on his chest and closed her eyes. "Hi," she mumbled.

"Good morning." His hand caught hers, his thumb pressing gently against her palm. "You know what I've been thinking about?"

"Do I want to know?" She slid across the sheets and rested her head against his shoulder with a sigh.

"Well, I'll clean it up a little, if you want. Make it suitable for sensitive ears."

"Please."

He laughed, which started her laughing. She curled her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, suddenly afraid that she'd wake up for real and find him gone; that what was happening was all just a dream.

"No," he mumbled against the crown of her head, "I was thinking that we spent a lot of time at Laine's wedding trying to explain our relationship. And our answers today are different to what they were yesterday."

"I don't think they believed our answers last night anyway," Stacey said. She breathed a sigh. "When do you have to go home?"

"No particular time. So long as I show up for work tomorrow."

"Good." She looked up at him, one golden thread of hair falling across her face. "Can I come to your place sometime?"

"Uh – you'd better wait until I clean up a little first." His palmed his hand over her back.

"Do you just have porn magazines everywhere?" she asked, putting a knowing tone into her voice.

"Place is wallpapered with it." He rolled her over and laughed, grinning down at her, and her stomach flipped over at the happiness on his face.

"What do you want for breakfast?" she asked, knowing she had to eat soon.

"Whatever you're having," he mumbled against her skin. "Just four times as much."

She laughed. "I love you," she said. "I'm not scared anymore. I'd marry you tomorrow."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," she said. "If you still want me."

Robert marked her skin lightly with his teeth. "I'm working tomorrow," he said, "so it might be kind of difficult." He brushed her hair from her face with his fingers, his weight against her chest. "But I still want you," he said. "Always will."


	34. Suicide

**Title/Prompt:** Suicide  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 1115  
**Summary: **Mrs. Porter has been invited to the Thomas-Brewer household for Christmas dinner. Karen is very concerned.

**Notes:** Please note there are **_no_ warnings** in place for this chapter - the prompt is 'suicide', but the word is mentioned in a 'Karen Brewer is fluent in hyperbole' sense only. This chapter should not be triggering and does not contain content relating to actual suicide.

This is for _isabelquinn_ as part of _fandom_stocking 2012._

* * *

Karen's just glad she knows ahead of time. It's only a few days, but still – enough time to hastily prepare the house for what is bound to be known by all of Stoneybrook as The Christmas Apocalypse.

Or maybe, That One Time Morbidda Destiny Smoked Half of Stoneybrook Off the Map.

The Black Winter. Tinsel-Season Terror. Witchy Winter.

"Karen?"

Karen is pulled out of her daydreaming by Kristy knocking on her bedroom door. She looks down at her desk, which has scraps of coloured paper scattered all over it.

"What are you doing?" Kristy asks.

"Making decorations," Karen says innocently. "Will you help me put them around the house?"

"Sure," Kristy says. "These are pretty."

"Yes," Karen agrees, and she thinks how fortunate it is that stars blend so well into regular Christmas apparel. "It is very important we put a lot of them in the dining room."

"Well, let's go ask Mom," Kristy says, collecting a handful of stars. "The dining room might be covered already."

Karen knows it won't be. She specifically asked for decorating privileges in the dining room, knowing that their guest would be spending most of her time there.

"Is Mor – uh – Mrs. Porter definitely coming for Christmas dinner?" Karen asks, following Kristy with a pile of paper stars in her hands.

"Definitely," Kristy says.

"Kristy," Karen says painfully, "inviting a witch into your home is _suicide._ Everybody knows that."

"It's not," Kristy says, and she gives Karen a look – a look that Karen recognises well. (Kristy has slipped momentarily into President Baby-sitter Mode, and Karen knows this doesn't bode well for her.)

"It is," Karen insists, not able to give up just yet. "We may as well just –"

"Karen," Kristy says sharply.

Karen bites her lip and jumps the last two stairs. Elizabeth is at the front door sorting through a pile of mail.

"May I decorate the dining room?" Karen asks, knowing that the decorating must take place with a happy spirit and no-trouble-whatsoever. (Trouble only makes Evil Powers more powerful. Karen needs the atmosphere to be a very Christmassy one if she's going to save the entire neighbourhood.)

"Sure," Elizabeth says, smiling. "Those are beautiful, Karen. I like the gold ones."

"You may hang the gold ones," Karen says graciously, aiming to bump the goodwill and happiness up another notch.

Her father, Charlie and Andrew all file in to help. Charlie stands on the table in socked feet and hooks stars to the chandelier with string, which pleases Karen greatly. "Make sure the point goes straight up, Charlie," she says. "They need to be straight."

"These ones, too?" her father asks. He waggles a star in his hand. "Don't you want them a little askew? Jaunty?"

Elizabeth laughs at the word jaunty.

"No!" Karen says. "The point must go straight up. It is very important."

Kristy has a suspicious look on her face, but everyone follows directions, and soon the dining room is decorated with coloured paper stars, a pentagram pencilled very carefully onto the back of each one.

"That will have to do," Karen says critically. She waits for everyone else to file out again, and makes double-sure all the stars – pentagrams – have a point directed straight up. She knows that an inverted pentagram will backfire with the worst possible consequences. An inverted pentagram would, as she had warned Kristy, be suicide in a situation like this.

Karen finds Sam in the kitchen, wiping milk off his lip and putting the carton back in the fridge.

"Sam," she says. "Have you seen any suspicious behaviour next door today?"

Sam is the only one she trusts to tell her the truth. Kristy does not like Sam telling her the truth. Karen does not like that Sam thinks the truth is so funny, but she's willing to put up with his badly-stifled laughter for snippets of information.

"Uh, no," Sam says, looking over towards Morbidda Destiny's house. "Not lately."

"Did you know Daddy has invited Morbidda Destiny to Christmas dinner?" Karen asks in an urgent whisper.

"Yeah," Sam says. "I hope she doesn't bring witch food, huh."

Karen's eyes widen. "Do not eat anything she brings," she says urgently. "Only eat what Elizabeth cooks."

"Gotcha," Sam says solemnly.

"Inviting a witch into the house is a terrible idea," Karen says. "If you invite them in, their magic is more powerful. They do not have to leave again. They can do terrible, terrible things." She widens her eyes as much as she possibly can, and is gratified when Sam looks less amused and more worried.

"Karen," he says. "First of all, I don't think Mrs. Porter is going to do anything on Christmas Day. Even witches need to take a vacation, you know?"

"That's exactly what she wants you to think!" Karen says.

"And," Sam says, holding up a finger to silence her, "that rule only applies to vampires, and I'm absolutely positive Mrs. Porter is not a vampire."

Karen folds her arms and thinks about this. "Vampires?"

"Yes," Sam says. "If you invite a vampire in, it's trouble. But witches? Nah."

Karen frowns at him. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Sam says. "Also, I'm sure you've noticed a distinct lack of Bad Activity coming from next door lately."

"That just means she's saving up for something big!" Karen explodes.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, "but I think she's going to shoot fireworks from her chimney on New Year's Eve."

Karen's heart skips a beat. "Really?"

"Yeah, and it takes a lot of magic to do that. You need permits from the council and everything. So she's probably going to save up for that."

"Oh." Karen expels a relieved breath. "How do you know this?"

"I can't reveal my sources," Sam says solemnly.

Karen stares at him for a long moment, but she doesn't think he's lying. He's being serious, and it's without the weight of Kristy's Baby-sitter Glare upon him.

"Okay," she says eventually. "But, Sam?"

"What?"

"Will you sit beside me on Christmas Day? Just in case?"

"You got it," Sam says, and he holds out his hand for a high five. Karen slaps his palm and goes to check on the pentagrams again.

Just to be safe.


	35. Beer

**Title/Prompt:** Beer  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG  
**Word count:** 4413  
**Summary:**Five times John Pike definitely did not propose to Dee Hartigan, and one time he did.

**Notes:** Written for _imamaryanne_ for _fandom_stocking_ 2012. Beta'd by _miss_slipslop._ :)

* * *

Dee glanced at the clock, and then reached for the ringing phone with a sigh. "You're in big trouble," she said, not bothering with a hello; not bothering to see if it would be him or not. (It would be him. She always knew when it was him – just knew.)

"I know, I know," John said. "Big, big trouble."

Dee shifted the phone against her ear, music and shouting a bubbling riot somewhere behind him. "Are you at a bar?"

"I might be," John said.

"Where?" Dee asked. "You're in Stamford, right?"

"I am, I am," John insisted. "But," he added, "you know how it is, Dee-Dee, when you're as popular as me..." He draws the word out, singing it at her. "You tell people you're in town and all of a sudden things get out of control." He gasped, or hiccuped – Dee couldn't tell.

"And now you need me to come and get you," Dee said, looking down at the ragged pyjama pants she'd pulled on. "John, it's freezing out. I'm ready for bed."

"I can get a cab," he protested. "It's no trouble. Mostly I just called to say I love you, Dee. And that I might be slightly in – in... uh, drunk, when I get to your house."

"You're slurring your S's," Dee said, amused.

"I'll get a cab," he said.

"No, I'll come and get you. Where are you?"

"Um," he said.

She waited while he explained how he'd been pulled into it, some guys he knew from college had remembered his birthday and knew he was in town, and he'd protested, mostly, even after he'd finished the first beer, and the second – but after the third it got harder to protest, and then the fourth beer had been the one that led to the pool competition...

She wrote down the name of the bar and reluctantly slid out from beneath the blanket she'd tucked over her legs. "Don't drink anymore," she said sternly. "I'll be there in like – fifteen minutes. Drink water or something."

"I love you," John said apologetically.

She dropped the phone into the cradle and let herself giggle for a moment before she got dressed again.

The streets were mostly empty, snow crusted in dirty lumps by the sidewalks. Christmas lights were still up, throwing coloured webs over the icy pavement. The bar was still crowded, people milling about in the frigid air when things got too stuffy inside.

She saw John leaning against the brick, a wide grin on his face, his jacket hanging loose off one shoulder, an unlit cigarette pinched in his fingers.

She hurried over to him, her coat pulled tight around her. "Pike!" she shouted, slipping a little on a wet patch of snow.

"Hey, Dee!" he cried, eyes bright. "That was fast."

"Get in the car," she said, not unkindly. (It was hard to be mad, even after he'd promised he'd drive straight to her place after work, even when it was the last night she'd have the house to herself before her parents got back, even after he'd called her so late.)

"I won thirty dollars," he said, letting her pull his arm over her shoulders.

"You can use it to buy me a big apology dinner," she said, leading him towards her tiny car.

"I already spent it," he said forlornly.

She pushed him into the backseat and he laughed and curled his legs up so he'd fit, his head on the seat behind the driver's seat, feet braced against the door.

"How many have you had?" she asked, sinking behind the wheel again and starting the car.

"A lot," he said tiredly. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay."

"I promised you I'd come see you."

"You did promise," Dee tutted. "I was going to spoil you for your birthday, and everything."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." She grinned and shook her head. "Not now. Not when you don't even call to say where you are. I thought you'd been in an accident, and then I realised no, you're a drunk and you're just at bar –"

He laughed and thumped the back of her seat with his fist. "I should have called," he murmured. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"That's right, you won't," Dee declared. She craned her head to look down at him as she stopped at a red light. "I should make you sleep on the couch tonight."

"Please don't," he murmured. "I can't get these pants off without help."

"Ever the charmer," she said, grinning as the light turned green. "Don't expect sympathy when you're hungover tomorrow."

"No, I won't," he said.

There was a thump as he shifted, rolling about on the backseat. "Your car is too fucking small," he complained.

"It's fine when you're back there by yourself," she said.

He laughed. "I love you," he said. "I'm gonna marry you someday."

Her heart jumped in her chest and she looked in the rear-view mirror. It was too dark to see him. She could hear him hum something under his breath.

"Oh," she said. "You are?"

"Hm," he breathed. "But pretend to be surprised when I really ask."

She grinned, her fingers tightening on the wheel. "You'll have to sober up, first," she said. "I'm not marrying a drunk."

* * *

"My parents are home," Dee breathed in protest, but she didn't let go of John. She tightened her fingers so his coat pulled tight against his shoulders.

He kissed her again. He tasted like beer, and they'd had too much and even the walk back to her place hadn't been enough to sober them up.

"We'll be quiet," he whispered.

"You can't be quiet," she muttered, dragging fingers through his hair. "You talk dirty and you talk loud."

He snorted against her neck, leaning his weight on her, pinning her against the front door. "I'll whisper," he promised. His mouth moved wet against her skin. "Hm?"

"My parents are just dying to have something against you," Dee said. "You're too good and wholesome in front of them. They know you're full of shit; they just don't have the evidence yet."

"You need to get your own place," he groaned. His hands slipped under her shirt, cold on her warm skin.

She shivered. "I know, I know."

"When are they going away again?"

"Easter," Dee breathed. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back.

"I haven't had you to myself since _Christmas_," he said painfully.

"Well, Valentine's Day is like the halfway point," Dee said helpfully.

He growled and nipped her skin, sucking gently.

"No hickeys!" Dee yelped. She shoved him and he stumbled backwards down the front steps.

"You nearly broke my neck," he said indignantly.

She giggled and reached for him, staying on the top step so her head was above his, and pressed a warm kiss to his brow. "Go home, John."

"I'm too drunk."

Dee sighed and twined her fingers into his hair again, rocking against him slowly. "That's entirely your fault."

"Not entirely," he mumbled. "My girlfriend had some say in it."

Dee giggled and quickly stifled herself. She kissed him slowly, her hands cupping his face. "You can't come in," she groaned. "They'll kill you."

"Just let me sober up," he whispered. "I can't drive home like this; not with the roads still all iced up. Let me in for a glass of water, and then I'll go. They're asleep, they won't know anything."

She breathed a short, disbelieving sigh, but dug her keys out of her pocket. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

He tripped on an untied shoelace as he followed her back to the door, clutching her to stay upright. "I could give you a few ideas."

"If they catch you, you're on your own," she warned. "And quiet, okay? Shh..." She crept in, John's feet shuffling on the floorboards behind her. "Don't turn any lights on," she whispered.

His hand slipped up under her shirt again as they tiptoed to the kitchen, fingertips sliding along the waistband of her jeans. "Your parents love me," he murmured in her ear. "They think I'm respectable."

"Only because, so far, there's no evidence to the contrary," Dee said. She filled a glass with water and handed it to him.

"S'pose we'd better keep that impression," John said. He swallowed loudly, draining half the glass. "Want them to think I'm good enough for you."

"Right," Dee agreed, taking the glass from him and finishing the last couple of mouthfuls herself. She filled it again.

"If I can stay in their good books, maybe they'll let me marry you someday," John added.

Dee looked up at him over the top of her next swallow, her breath fogging the glass. "What?"

He nuzzled her neck. "What," he said.

She tapped the glass down on the counter, water sloshing over her hand. "You said that at Christmas, too," she said. "Talking about marrying me." She tugged his hair so she could see his eyes, the blinds over the sink sending striped light across his face. "Are you proposing?"

"No!" he said loudly.

"Shh!" she insisted. She listened for any noises from upstairs, but it was silent.

"But would you say yes, though?" he asked.

"Are you asking?"

"No. Not in your parents' kitchen. Definitely not."

"Well, I'm not giving you an answer until you officially ask."

"That means yes," John said, burying his face against her shoulder.

"It does not."

He chuckled tiredly. "Does so."

* * *

John twisted the cap off another beer for Dee and took a swallow before he passed it to her.

"I saw that," she said lazily, blinking at him, one arm half-draped over her eyes, against the sun.

"You saw nothing," he said. He stretched out on the blanket beside her with a sigh. "I think," he said, "if I tried to get up right now, I'd fall over."

"You'd better stay down, then," Dee said, propping herself up on her elbows to drink her beer.

"I could so manage that," he muttered, rolling over to trail his mouth over her skin, down her stomach.

"Don't!" Dee giggled, shoving him away. "We're not alone on this beach, you know."

John sat up and reached for the cooler, pulling another beer out of the ice. "Alone enough," he said. "Nobody comes down this far."

"I'm drunk," Dee complained, trailing a wet thumb down the neck of her beer. "By the time the fireworks come on, I'll be asleep."

"We could make our own fireworks," John said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"I set you up for that," Dee said.

"Nicely," he agreed. They clinked their bottles together and rested back on their elbows, gazing back at the waves rolling in. After a moment, John reached over and pulled the string ties at the back of Dee's neck undone. Her bikini top sat loose against her bronzed skin. She eyed him warily, but didn't move.

He sipped his beer again and dug his toes into the sand by the blanket. His fingers trailed over her palm and the inside of her wrist, turned up to the warmth of the sun.

"Don't," she moaned. "We're in public."

"I'm not doing anything," he said. He hiccuped a little and then laughed, setting his beer down in the sand. "No one's around."

"The moment this bikini comes off, a whole crowd of people will come over the top of that sand dune," Dee said, but she eased down onto her back and closed her eyes, squirming a little as her swimsuit slid across her skin and fell to the blanket.

"I'm too drunk for this to last very long," he mumbled against her skin. He grimaced and reached for his beer. "You taste like sunblock."

"Sorry," she said. The beer and the sun had combined to make her sleepy. She stretched out on her back, arms over her head, and closed her eyes contentedly as John's mouth trailed over her chest.

"I'm drunk," John complained.

"I'm almost naked," Dee croaked. "That's worse."

He laughed and slid on top of her, cupping one hand behind her knee so her leg draped around his waist. "Look how far you've fallen," he said. "Eleven months with me and you're drunkenly pawing at me on a public beach."

"I am not pawing at you," Dee protested. "You, on the other hand..."

He kissed her. "You taste like beer," he said.

"That's all you, baby," she muttered.

He laughed and rested his weight on top of her, his chest bare against hers. He pinched her ring finger gently, his thumb rubbing against her skin.

"What are you doing?" she murmured against the top of his head.

"Measuring," he answered.

She blinked up at the blue sky, remembering two previous drunken half-proposals. "What for?"

"It's a secret," he said.

"It's the worst secret ever!" Dee said, her throat dry from the heat and the beer. "You've asked me twice."

"I have not!" he protested. "I'm just testing the waters."

She laughed and shoved him, reaching for her bikini top. "Well, I'm getting hot," she said. "I'm goin' for a swim." She grabbed her beer and struggled to her feet, a wave of dizziness hitting her.

John struggled up beside her. "Not asking," he said. "But if I did..." He stroked his thumb over her finger again.

"You'd better get one that fits," Dee said, pulling her hand free. She sauntered ahead of him on the sand. "Else, I might say no."

* * *

John's face was rosy, and the cheeky grin on his face told Dee he'd have his hands all over her if she got close enough. He sat between her brother Jordan and her sister Lucinda, and neither of them seemed particularly interested in sobering up either.

Dee's father had retired to the couch to sleep off their Thanksgiving meal, and her mother pottered around in the kitchen, humming to herself and pretending not to notice how much her children were drinking in the dining room. Francis and Aram disappeared to the den, arguing between fits of laughter as they sorted through their father's record collection.

"I just need a little something," Jordan said, patting his stomach.

"You ate the entire turkey," Lucinda retorted. "How can you be hungry?"

"It's a drunk hunger," Jordan answered, getting to his feet and swaying slightly. "You'll understand what that means when you get a few _legal_ years of drinking under your belt."

"I could drink you under the table any day," Lucinda said, leaping to her feet.

"Why don't we ask Mom what she thinks?" Jordan asked, opening his eyes wide.

Lucinda pointed a warning finger at him. "Don't you dare." She followed Jordan into the kitchen, and suddenly John was beside Dee, his hands wide against her back, fingers curling into the soft fabric of her best sweater.

"I'm hungry too," he murmured.

"You're drunk," Dee said, wrinkling her nose at the booze on his breath. "Cool your jets, Romeo."

He grinned and kissed her. "Ah, come on," he said. "Your parents love me."

"They do like you some," Dee admitted, wrapping her arms around his neck and lifting herself onto her toes to kiss him.

"Your mom keeps giving me a look," John says, raising his eyebrows. "Like a, '_What are your intentions, John Pike?_' kind of look."

"Oh, really?" Dee asked. She glanced over his shoulder at the open doorway, but Jordan and Lucinda were still bickering, Jordan rummaging through the fridge. "Just what are your intentions?"

He backed her against the table, his hands low down on her hips. "I've got a decent future planned out," he insisted. "Marriage, a house, kids."

"Oh really?" Dee grinned up at him, butterflies in his stomach. "When did I agree to all this?"

"Well, you haven't, yet, because I haven't asked you," he said. "But when I ask, you'll be ready for it."

"What if I'm ready for it now?"

"You can't handle me yet, sweetheart."

"Jesus," Dee whispered, shoving him. She giggled. "You think a lot of yourself, don't you?"

He grinned and kissed her cheek, making it wet, his lips smacking against her. "I think a lot of you," he said. "And if you can cook a Thanksgiving meal as well as your mom can, I'm set for life."

"Whatever," Dee said. "When we're married, you're doing the cooking."

* * *

The globe in John's bedroom was dull, burned out, and music rose through the floor from the apartment below. The windows were shut tight against the summer heat, and the air conditioner gurgled wetly, breathing cool air over Dee's bare skin.

"What do you want to do for our anniversary?" John asked, his voice half lost in the pillow beneath his head.

Dee smiled up at the ceiling. "I don't know," she said. She traced her fingers over his hand, which was flat and warm against her stomach. "Two years is a long time, huh."

"Practically an eternity," John agreed. "Still not really sure how I feel about you, though."

"Whatever," Dee said, rolling over. "You've proposed to me four times over the past eighteen months."

"I have not," he said hotly, opening his eyes and watching her settle herself beside him, her face close to his.

"You have. Talked about it, anyway."

"Talking about it isn't the same as doing it."

She trailed her fingertips over his back. "You will though, right?" she asked. "Because I don't want anyone else to ask me."

"Who else is going to ask you?" John asked suspiciously. "Have you got other men chasing after you?"

"If you take much longer asking me, I might," she said, grinning at him.

He growled and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, skin sticky against hers. "Dee," he murmured in her ear, close and soft.

"Yeah?" She felt her heart lift a notch in her chest, beating against her breast.

His lips brushed her temple. His arms tightened around her. "Will you – will you get me another beer?"

"Oh!" She pulled away and reached back to try and slap him.

He rolled over, laughing. "I'm not proposing to you while I've got no pants on," he said.

She laughed and sat up, raking her hair back over her shoulder. "Good," she sniffed. "I'd turn you down, anyway."

He grinned and reached for her, tracing his hand over the bare skin of her back. "Sure you would."

* * *

"I'm tired," Dee breathed. She kicked her shoes off, the buzz of drinking and loud music having worn off long ago. Now she just wanted to sleep.

John started the car and glanced over at her. "I'm not ready to go home yet."

"I am," Dee groaned.

"Let's just drive for a while."

"We have to drive all the way home," she said. "New York City to Stamford isn't enough for you?"

"Nah," he said. "Let's go somewhere else."

She leaned over and sniffed him.

He jumped and looked at her with wide eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Smelling you to see how drunk you are."

"I'm fine to drive," he promised, grinning at her.

"No, I'm not questioning your driving ability," she said. "Just your sanity in general."

He laughed and put his arm around her. "Come on a little road trip with me, Dee-Dee."

She mumbled a half-hearted protest. "Where?"

"I've got an idea or two up my sleeve."

Dee didn't mean to, but she was tired, and content, and she found herself drifting off to sleep. John was quiet, steering the car smoothly over the road, the radio murmuring. She felt him take her hand and she curled into him tightly.

"Don't crash," she murmured.

"I'll try not to."

She woke again when he nudged her, and the air was cold and heavy with the smell of brine and seaweed.

"Rise and shine," he said.

She sat up, disoriented, and caught sight of the silvery surface of the ocean, the pink hue in the east. "Where are we?" she asked. She rubbed her eyes and fumbled for John's hand as he got out of the car, pulling her gently after him.

"Take another look," he said, and she looked out at the beach and recognised it, pale in the early dawn. He'd kissed her here before – their first kiss had been here, knee-deep in the water with the sun setting in the sky.

She blinked at him. "How long was I asleep?"

"Long enough," he said. He grinned and took her hand again, leading her down to the beach. Dee found herself blinking back tears, her breath hitching in her throat with anticipation, heart drumming in her chest.

"Our anniversary isn't until next weekend," she said, her voice sounding thick and strange.

"I know. But you fell asleep, and I was driving, and I just – I found myself coming here." He grinned at her and pulled her to where the sand was flat and smooth, shells and pebbles dotted along the shoreline. "You were really out of it," he said, pulling her close and kissing her. "I thought you'd wake up before we go here. You must be getting old."

"I was tired," she said softly, ignoring his joke. She felt awake now. Wide, wide awake. She shivered in the early-morning air and curled her toes into the wet sand.

"I'm going to do this properly," John said, and Dee thought he sounded a bit nervous. "On one knee and everything."

She blinked, her eyes still watery. "Go on then," she croaked. "Down you get."

"Give me a moment," he said. He kissed her, fingers stroking the small of her back. "Dee," he said.

Her vision blurred for a moment and her eyes spilled over. She wiped her tears away, frustrated and embarrassed, but didn't say anything.

He took her hand and sank to one knee in front of her, and the rising sun caught the diamond in its little black box.

"Dee," he said again, "I love you. You're my best friend, the only girl I have ever loved, the only girl I _will_ ever love. I want to wake up beside you every day for the rest of my life. I want to come home to you every night. I want to spoil you on every single one of your birthdays. I want to have a home with you and I want to have a whole bunch of kids with you." His hand tightened on hers. "Dee, I want to marry you," he said earnestly. "Please, will you be my wife?"

She opened her mouth, but her voice had no strength. She laughed and wiped her eyes with her free hand. "Yes," she said.

"Finally," he said, and he pulled her down into the sand and kissed her.

She laughed breathlessly, clutching him tightly. "Finally," she sobbed.

"Yeah." He laughed and buried his face against her neck, and she didn't know if he was crying or if it was simply the moisture from her own tears on her skin.

"Hey," she croaked. "Put that damn ring on my finger, right now."

He grinned and took her hand, slipping the diamond over her finger. It shone pink in the morning sunlight.

"Luci helped me choose it," he said. "Blame her if you hate it."

"No," she said, wiping her eyes again, unable to look away from the ring on her finger. "I love it, it's beautiful." She kissed him. "I love it. Almost as much as I love you."

"Can't hope for much more than that," John said.

"Of all the times you've asked me to marry you, this one is my favourite," Dee said.

"Hey," John said sternly, hands on her shoulders. "Those other times absolutely did not count. That was just – thinking aloud."

Dee leaned into him, her knees pressing into the wet sand. "Whatever," she said. "Every time you get drunk, you ask me to marry you."

"Well, I'll have to pester you for something else, now," he said, staggering to his feet and lifting her into his arms.

"Kids," Dee said.

"Yeah." He ran for the surf, and she shrieked and clawed at his shoulder, laughing as he threatened to throw her to the waves.

He swung her in his arms. "Want to go home?"

"Not yet," she said. "I want breakfast. Waffles. With syrup and strawberries."

"How rich you do you think I am?" he asked indignantly. "I just shelled out for a diamond, I can't afford waffles."

She laughed and hugged him, letting her toes touch the water below. "Please?"

He breathed a sigh against her ear. "Okay," he said. "It's lucky you're cute and I'm generous."

"You're the best husband ever," Dee said. She grinned against his cheek as he laughed.


	36. Warm

**Title/Prompt:** Warm  
**Rating/Warnings:** M [language, sex]  
**Word count:** 10366  
**Summary: **When sleepless nights are clinging to her skin and her hair is electric from restlessly shifting against her pillow, Ben Hobart emails Mallory a photograph of the view from his back porch, and the words, _Plenty of room here._**  
**

**Notes:** Written for porn battle xiv (fiery fourteen) at oxoniensis' journal livejournal and dreamwidth. _But_ this took off so fast the 'porn' part of it is really scaled down, and it's definitely more of a Mallory/Ben fic than it is a smut piece. Huge, huge thanks to isabelquinn for being my beta and squee partner. I had so much fun writing this one.

The porn battle prompts I used are: _curls, write, Australia_

* * *

Mallory's not sure what comes first – the writer's block or the breakdown. Success comes at such a heavy price she's starting to wonder if it's worth it.

"You need a break, honey," her mom tells her over the phone. "Come home for a few days."

Mallory is heating canned soup and watching the rain pour down the windows of the apartment. "No, I'll be okay," she says, but she can't even summon the energy to lie properly; to put a convincing tone into her voice. "It's just the weather, I think."

* * *

Vanessa spends more time at her boyfriend's house than she does at the apartment, but when she comes home it's with A Plan, and Mallory is often subjected to being dragged out into the rain for poetry readings and gallery viewings.

"You just need something to inspire you again," Vanessa insists. "You'll see something, or hear something, and then your imagination will take off and you'll be filling notebooks with words before you know it."

Mallory doesn't argue, but she doesn't believe her, either.

Claire, classically contradictory, is at once helpful and not. She brings boxes from bakeries, but by the time she's made it up the wrought-iron staircase to Mallory and Vanessa's apartment, the sugar flowers are all gone and there are suspicious, finger-thick swirls in the frosting on the cupcakes.

"Eat these," she says. "They're not as good as Mom's, but they'll do in a crisis."

"I'm not having a crisis," Mallory says, stretched out on the couch, her cheek pillowed on one of the sagging cushions.

"You know what you should do?" Claire asks.

"What?" Mallory asks, already dreading the advice which is to come.

"Something dramatic," Claire says, tossing her colour-streaked hair over her shoulder. "Have an affair or something."

Mallory can't help but laugh into the couch cushions. "Right," she says. "Because that's me."

"Get a tattoo," Claire says, eyes widening with excitement.

"_You _get a tattoo," Mallory says. "If you haven't already."

"Nah," Claire says, pulling the sleeves of her shirt up to show of her bare arms. "Mom would kill me."

Mallory eyes the green and pink stripes through Claire's hair, but decides not to say anything.

"Take a trip," Claire says, poking Mallory in the ribs and sitting on the floor beside the couch. "Do _something_. The poetry readings are only making it worse."

"I'm _fine_," Mallory insists. "It's just writer's block."

Claire gives her a surprisingly stern look. "I don't think so," she says. Thankfully though, she doesn't elaborate.

* * *

Mallory's at another midnight poetry reading in some freezing open-air space down by the river. Vanessa is quivering with excitement at her side, her breath rapturous. Mallory trembles with the cold. She can feel her bones aching with it, and she feels light and weak with exhaustion. She just wants to go to bed.

Her mind starts to drift, and she pulls up a mental image of her desk, walled with crooked piles of books and papers, her blank notebook sitting on the scratched leather square in the middle, the paper too stark and full of _nothing_.

She pulls her scarf up over her nose and silently worries that it's been too long anyway; that everyone has forgotten about her first novel and now they're onto a new fad.

Success is fleeting, and she hasn't been quick enough to catch the next wave.

* * *

Claire and Vanessa have an argument that lasts for days. Mallory doesn't know or care what it's about, until Vanessa storms into her study and says, "Dave's getting married."

Mallory feels her stomach drop. "Oh," she says.

"Claire didn't want me to tell you," Vanessa says, with the superior air of someone who knows they're right and everyone else is wrong. "But I thought you should know."

"Okay," Mallory says.

Vanessa folds her arms and watches Mallory carefully. "Are you okay?"

Mallory nods, and eventually Vanessa leaves her alone.

After ten minutes of silence and trying not to cry, Mallory rummages under her desk for her laptop. It was a gift from the triplets, and it came with a birthday card that stated they didn't owe her another present for ten years because of how much they'd spent on this one. She doesn't tell them she prefers to write by hand, ink to paper, because she's sure they'd be disgusted, and Jordan would spend at least an hour lecturing her on the benefits of technology and what will happen if she allows herself to be left behind.

She loads her email, deleting most of it without reading it so she doesn't have to deal with the guilt of missed party invitations, or announcements that probably warranted some sort of congratulatory comment or gift from her.

_Hey, I'm thinking of taking a vacation. Any ideas?_

She sends it before she can really think about it.

Two days later, when sleepless nights are clinging to her skin and her hair is electric from restlessly shifting against her pillow, Ben Hobart emails her a photograph of the view from his back porch, and the words, _Plenty of room here._

* * *

Flying makes her queasy and light-headed; makes her feel like she's almost stepped out of herself and some parts of her body are a half a step behind others. She lands in Melbourne at six o'clock in the morning and she has no idea what day it is or whether she should be hungry for breakfast or ready to curl up in bed.

There are surprisingly few other people in the terminal. It wouldn't matter if there were – Ben Hobart is still the easiest guy to spot in a crowd. He's almost a full head taller than anyone else and his hair gleams bright red under the fluorescent lights.

He grins and hugs her waist, picking her up and asking against her shoulder, "You _are _the famous author Mallory Pike, right?"

_Mal'ry_.

"Shut up," Mallory says tiredly, but she grins back at him and touches his cheek. "Thanks for this."

"Don't thank me yet," Ben says. "You haven't seen the spider-infested sofa bed you'll be sleeping on."

She laughs as he sets her down. "It'll be okay."

He takes her suitcase in one hand and her right hand in the other and leads her outside. The morning is cool and bright. Yellow taxis are lined up along the front of the airport, but Ben leads her over the road to the short-term parking.

"Do you want brekky or anything?" he asks. "We can stop and get a coffee. There's not much here, but if you're desperate I can run back and get you something with caffeine in it."

"No, it's okay," Mallory says. She watches Ben heave her suitcase into the trunk of his car.

"It's a fair way to my place, but we'll make a couple of stops for food or coffee," Ben says, grinning at her. He tilts his head. "You want to drive?"

"What?" Mallory asks. She steps back. "No, sorry." She goes around to the other side of the car, too tired to feel embarrassed. She feels off balance as Ben gets in behind the wheel on the right side of the car.

"Here you go," he says, passing her a bottle of water. "You know, Claire and Vanessa sent me a bunch of instructions, ordering me to look after you and not talk about things that will annoy you or upset you."

"Like what?" Mallory asks warily.

"Like your book, or Nicky's hypochondria, or some guy named Dave."

Mallory gives a tired laugh and leans her temple against the car window, closing her eyes. "I'm going to kill them both when I get home."

"Ah, they're worried about you," Ben says fondly, and then he lets the subject drop as he steers the car forward, the rising sun casting shadows out in front of them.

* * *

"What's your place like?" Mallory asks, trying to fight her jet lag. Her eyes are dry and tired from the flight and her glasses are somewhere in the pocket of her hand luggage, which is in the trunk.

"Small," Ben says, almost apologetically. "It's not flash. Don't let your expectations get too high."

Mallory laughs. "No, it'll be fine. I just – I've seen your back yard but I haven't seen anything else." She tries to recall the photo he sent her, the rays of the rising sun sending streaks across the camera lens, the grass like straw and the mountains purple-blue in the distance.

"It's old," Ben says. "I bought it meaning to do it up and I just haven't got around to doing it yet. It's got two little bedrooms and a really big kitchen. The lounge is decent but I spend most of my time on the back verandah – at least until it gets too hot."

He glances at her and grins. "You're probably gonna get really bored," he says. "There's not much to do out here. There's a town about ten minutes away but there's not much there but a pub and a post office. And there's a place about an hour away with shops and a cinema, so we can drive down there now and then if you like. And then the beach is about two and a half hours away."

"Are you going to be working much?" Mallory asks worriedly, suddenly wondering if she's going to be responsible for herself, having to figure out what to do or where to go, and having to drive on the left side of the road which, so far, seems completely wrong and terrifying.

"Nah, I took some time off," Ben says. "They didn't mind. I've never asked for time off before."

"Oh, good," Mallory says, relieved. Guilt twinges in her chest. "You didn't have to, though. I mean, I'd be okay."

"I know," he says simply. "But I've just about earned a holiday anyway. Kicking around doing nothing for a bit seems like a nice idea."

* * *

Ben's photo was deceiving. The colour is richer, the grass tawny and long, and the mountains are a lot closer than they looked in the photo, the misty-blue canopy of trees broken with grey slabs of rock. A large tree stands leaning at the back of the house, long pale leaves and white branches. The ground around the house is bare dust and the house is weatherboard with a roof of corrugated iron.

Mallory is in love with it before she's even out of the car.

There's a dog waiting in the shade beside a kennel made out of paint-stripped boards, straining at a chain pegged into the ground. He barks and wags his tail, prancing back and forth in the dust until Ben releases him. He runs in a wide circle before he sprints his way to the car.

"Sit!" Ben roars, but the dog jumps excitedly, marking Mallory's t-shirt with prints and trying to lick her hands.

She laughs and waves it down, and it runs back to Ben before it disappears around the side of the house.

"Sorry," Ben says. "He always goes kinda crazy when I chain him up. I only ever do it when I leave without him, so he's not used to it."

"It's okay." Mallory takes her hand luggage while Ben swings her suitcase out of the trunk. "What's his name?" she asks, watching the dog slip under a fence and bound through the long grass.

"Skip," Ben says, shouldering the front door open. "He'll settle down in a minute."

Mallory's bedroom is small. A single bed is crammed between the wall and an old wooden closet. When she sits on the edge of the mattress, the metal springs squeal beneath her.

"I thought you said I'd be sleeping on a spider-infested fold out," she says.

"Well, that can be arranged, if you'd prefer," Ben says, leaning against the door-frame.

"I think I prefer this," Mallory says. The mountains stand at the back of the house, but through her window she can see the tree-lined road they drove down to reach the front gate, and Skip's kennel.

"So," Ben says. "D'you wanna fight the jet lag or give in to it?"

"No, I feel okay," Mallory says. "Would it be okay to take a shower, though?"

"Yeah." Ben leads her through the house. The walls are pasted with mismatched wallpapers, faded and curling. The floors throughout are bare boards, except for the kitchen, which is cool, dark slate.

"You've ah – you've gotta come outside to get to the bathroom," Ben says apologetically. He pushes through a screen door and points at the end of the back porch, where another little room has been tacked onto the end of the house. The shower is over a wide claw-foot tub and the floor is made of the same slate as the kitchen.

"Towels are behind the door," Ben says, motioning with his hand. "Don't forget to bring your clothes in with you so you don't have to do a nudie run back through the house." He grins and bumps his shoulder against hers on the way out. "Not that I'll perve."

Mallory can feel the blood flush to her cheeks.

"Hey," he says suddenly, "I need to take James' car back. He's got my ute – we did a swap yesterday for the airport run. I'll be back in half an hour or so."

"Okay." Mallory smiles at him. "Say hey to James for me."

"I'll take Skip, so don't panic if you can't find him."

"Okay."

The shower pressure is a lot better than Mallory thought it would be. At first the water gutters and pours into the tub, but once the hot water kicks in it sprays evenly, heavy and hard against the top of her head.

She uses Ben's shampoo and leaves the bathroom windows open to the view of the mountains behind the house, the air breathing cool over her wet skin.

She wanders through the house in bare feet, her hair hanging in damp ringlets over her shoulders. She peeks into Ben's bedroom at the unmade bed and breathes in the faint trace of deodorant and the warm, dusty smell rising from the curtains.

A letter is propped up against the salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the scrubbed kitchen table, Mallory's name scrawled across it. Mallory lifts it with a sense of dread, which is replaced with surprise when she realises it's from Vanessa, not Ben.

She sits on the couch in the living room to read it.

_So this is a list of rules_, it starts, without so much as a hint of 'dear Mallory' or anything.

_1) Don't mope.  
2) Don't email. Ben has promised me he'll keep you well supplied with stamps, so if you have anything to tell us, write it down.  
3) We love you. Which I know is not a 'rule' per se, but it needed to be said._

_–Vanessa (and Claire) xoxo_

Mallory gives a small laugh and brings her knees up to her chest, curling her arms around herself. She's too tired to think much about anything, but she files away a little reminder to write Vanessa as soon as she can, just to put her mind at ease.

* * *

"So like, I don't wanna brag," Ben says, stirring the pan, "but I'm basically a chef."

Mallory laughs. "It smells good," she admits.

"Let's eat out on the verandah," he says, tipping half of the pan onto a plate for her, the other half onto his own. "It's cool enough out there now."

They sit side by side on an old couch which only seems marginally worse than the one inside, Skip begging for morsels off Ben's plate.

"So what else did you promise my sisters?" Mallory asks once she's eaten her fill. "I saw Vanessa's letter."

Ben is stretched out beside her, long legs propped up on a milk crate. Skip is inching on his belly towards his empty plate, left on the loose boards of the verandah beside the couch.

"Leave it," Ben warns, and Skip rolls over and hangs his tongue out the side of his mouth.

Mallory laughs.

"I didn't promise a lot," Ben says. "They didn't ask for much. Just to make sure you smile now and then, and to write them letters instead of emails. Made me swear I wouldn't mention things you usually don't want to talk about." He shrugs. "I dunno," he says. "Seems like you come with a big list of Do's and Don'ts."

Mallory finds she doesn't really have an explanation for him, though she still feels she owes him one. He pats her knee when he gets up. "Cuppa?" he asks. "Tea or coffee?"

"Actually, I think I'll just get some sleep," Mallory says tiredly. "But I'll help with the washing up first."

"Nah," Ben says. "Go to bed. You look like you haven't slept in weeks." He pulls her up with a laugh, and his arm lingers briefly around her waist. "Give us a yell if you need anything," he says.

Mallory leans against him and closes her eyes, suddenly more exhausted than she's ever been in her life. "Thanks," she says quietly. "I will."

* * *

Mallory wakes up, disoriented and dry-mouthed, without a clue of the time. She staggers from the bed, wincing as the springs squeal in the quiet house, and feels her way through the moonlit kitchen to the sink, where she draws a glass of water and peers out at the paddocks opposite, the grass silver.

She went to bed before sunset and it feels like it should be morning already; feels like the sun should be peeking at the horizon. When she checks the clock over the mantle in the living room, she's disappointed to see it's just after two o'clock.

The back of the house is open, cool air drifting through the screen door. Mallory eases it open and sinks onto the couch on the verandah, feeling wide awake. Something chirps incessantly from the long grass on the other side of the fence, a cricket or something, lonely and loud.

After a while, Mallory tries to compose a letter to Vanessa in her head, but the words won't come.

Her heart sinks. What hope is there of writing another book when she can't even write a simple letter?

She shuffles back to bed, feeling defeated and a little cheated, like the southern hemisphere had promised her something and then failed to deliver.

* * *

It's colder than it was four hours ago. Mallory pulls a sweater on and peers out the window. The light is already yellow, the sun starting to peek over the edge of the mountains behind the house. She finds Ben on the back verandah, his hair standing on end and his eyes bright and alert.

He grins at her. "How'd you sleep?"

"I woke up at two o'clock," Mallory says. "But I still slept better than I have in a long time."

Ben makes her a cup of unsweetened tea in a chipped enamel mug, the teabag left to steep. She curls the string around her fingers and sips it, watching Skip nosing his way along the fence. Further over, in the middle of the paddock, grey kangaroos stand with their chests to the sun, stretching and scratching.

They're bigger than Mallory thought they would be, and she's excited about seeing them in the wild without having to go looking for them, but she doesn't say anything to Ben in case he laughs at her.

"So I'm happy to hang around here today," he says. "But if there's something you want to do, don't be afraid to ask."

"Hanging out sounds good to me," Mallory says.

"It's supposed to be hot today," Ben says, glancing up at the sky. "You won't feel like doing much after lunch."

"Because of the weather, or your cooking?" Mallory teases.

He laughs and shakes his head. "Zing," he says. "You got me."

* * *

The first letter Mallory writes to Vanessa is short.

_Flight was horrible. By the time I landed in Melbourne I felt like a melted candle. Ben is still the most easy-going guy in the world. Australia is beautiful. Miss you._

_(And I love you, too, per se.)_

She has no idea how long it will take a letter to reach Vanessa, but she's not sure time is much of an issue. She has no plans or dates in her mind in regards to going home, and Ben has only vaguely mentioned she's welcome to stay as long as she likes, but he has to go back to work at the end of March.

He doesn't talk unless he's prompted, which suits Mallory just fine. Their silences are never uncomfortable and she never gets the impression he's curious about why she's there, or why he's been warned to never talk about her writing, or a guy named Dave.

* * *

"Do you ever get lonely out here, all by yourself?" Mallory asks one morning, the chipped enamel mug cupped in her hands, tea steaming slowly.

"Nah," Ben says. "Town's not that far away. I go to the pub most Friday nights. James lives just down the road, and I've got Skip. Mum and Dad live on the other side of Melbourne and I see 'em every couple of months."

"What about Mathew and Johnny?" she asks.

"Johnny's at uni, studying agriculture," Ben says. "Mat's picking fruit up in Queensland. He's a bit of a wanderer." He shrugs, staring out across the paddocks at the back of the house. "I like peace and quiet," he says.

"Is that a hint for me to leave?" Mallory asks, not really believing so for a moment.

"Nah," he laughs. His hand drops down to her knee and he takes another gulp of tea. "You can stay as long as you like."

* * *

_Please don't start abusing the phrase 'per se'._

_Claire is making it a rule that all of your letters have to be at least 200 words long from now on, which I think is reasonable._

_Jordan won the case he's been working on. Adam and Byron took him out to celebrate and I haven't heard from any of them since. Dad went by just to make sure they were all alive, and I haven't heard anything which would suggest the contrary, so I'm assuming they're still hungover and they'll write to you soon. (It's a rule.)_

_Nicky thinks he has Mono._

_Margo asked for your address, so expect a letter from her soon. She called the other night to say the group had stopped in Montreal and their first performance is on Saturday. She sounded miserable; I think she's out of pills and it sounds like the bus journey was rough._

_Have you seen any of the other Hobarts? What's Ben's house like? Is the weather nice? It's pouring rain here._

_Miss you, love you. Vanessa._

_P.S. Claire is making herself at home here while you're on the other side of the world. She keeps trying to bribe me with cupcakes, but I thought you should know. She's in your bed and everything._

* * *

Ben takes Mallory to the pub one Friday night, suggesting it out of the blue and pulling her over to his ute before she can protest. Skip jumps onto the tray on the back and barks until they reach the main road.

The pub is small and crowded, kept dark with the ceiling fans on lazy rotation. Ben sits beside Mallory at the bar with a grin and falls into easy conversation, introducing her to bronzed men who never take their hats off, and the woman pouring drinks, Jane, who swears heavily and threatens to cut off the beer if people don't stop talking shit.

It's loud and hot but Mallory finds she doesn't mind. She listens to Ben talk about the lack of rain and the abundance of fly-strike, how shit the cricket has been this year and whether or not the fish are biting up near Echuca. She listens to the way everyone calls him Benny or Blue, and realises he's not the only one here who calls her Mal'ry.

"I read your book," Jane says off-handedly, setting another beer down in front of her. "It was really good."

"Oh," Mallory says, embarrassed. "Thanks."

"Gonna write another one?"

"My publisher wants me to."

Jane grins at her and wanders off to pour another jug of beer from the tap.

Mallory listens to the conversation around her, not following much of it, but it doesn't bother her. She watches Ben, the way he leans one muscled arm against the bar, his hand nursing his beer. She laughs when people tease him about how pale he still is. Then they reason Mallory is worse, and her name for the rest of the night is Casper.

* * *

The evening has well and truly drawn in when they get home, the sun gone but the sky still mauve and yellow. Cockatoos are roosting in the trees along the road, making an amount of noise that Mallory still can't quite believe.

They sit on the back verandah and Ben opens another beer for her, slipping it into a foam sleeve and propping his feet up on the milk crate. "Okay?" he asks.

"Yeah." Mallory smiles at him and mouths the lip of the frosty bottle. "They were all really nice." She gives him a sly smile. "You're pretty popular."

He laughs and shakes his head, twisting the cap off another beer and flipping it away into the shadows with a quick snap of his thumb. "They're all right," is all he says. He tips his head back against the couch and looks at her for a long moment. "Jane was asking about your book," he says.

"Oh, it's okay," Mallory says. "Don't worry about what Vanessa and Claire say. It's not like I'll have a breakdown just because someone mentions it."

"Why don't you like talking about it?" Ben asks. "I think it's pretty good. Lacking a red-headed hero here and there, but..."

Mallory laughs and eyes him critically. "Maybe next time."

He grins, but doesn't push her to say anything else.

"I don't mind talking about the book I've already published," Mallory says slowly, but there's an ache in her stomach as she says so. "I'm just feeling a lot of pressure to get the next one done. I'm scared if I try again, everyone will realise that I just got lucky the first time. That it wasn't really skill or good writing that got me here, it was just luck and timing."

"Oh, bugger everyone else," Ben says. He takes a long pull from his beer. "If it'll just make you unhappy, don't do it, Mal."

"It's not writing that makes me unhappy, it's everything that comes with it now," she says anxiously, thinking about the nerve-wracking wait for reviews and the whirlwind publicity tours. "It's not as simple and straight-forward as I thought it would be." She looks down at her hands, wrapped around her beer. "Maybe I should have stuck to picture books."

"Couldn't you write a kids' book next?" Ben asks. "Are you under a contract or anything?"

"No," Mallory says thoughtfully. "They tried hard, but Vanessa made me swear not to sign an agreement that dictated how much I had to produce, or when. I think she was right."

They sit in silence for a few minutes more, until Ben says, "What about Dave?"

Mallory's stomach twists uncomfortably. "He's just... nobody," she says, trailing off. "I mean, he was somebody. But he's nobody now." She rubs her thumb against the lip of her beer bottle. "He's getting married, anyway."

Ben doesn't ask her to elaborate.

* * *

Ben has gone into town for the mail and groceries. Mallory sits on the couch on the back verandah with a pen and her notebook, Skip stretched out at her feet.

She starts the letter by answering Vanessa's questions, but finds herself writing paragraphs that have nothing to do with anything; things she's not even sure are true. She describes the house with all of its run-down charm and starts conjuring up the ghosts of people who could have lived here before Ben; who must have used the enormous fireplace in the kitchen to cook things; who must have run sheep or cattle on the land surrounding them to make a living. She writes about what it would have been like if the house had been there before the town; what it would be like to live a life that was self-sustaining; what it would be like to have the house full of children.

She reads over it and crosses Vanessa's name out at the top. She rewrites what she's got, neatly and quickly on fresh paper. By the time Ben comes home she's folding the third draft of a short story into an envelope addressed to Vanessa.

She helps him unpack the groceries while Skip noses around their feet, hoping to come across something for him.

"Here," Ben says, unwrapping a roll of butcher's paper to reveal an enormous bone with shreds of meat still clinging to it. "Don't go and bury it."

Skip grabs it happily and pushes his way through the screen door, wagging his tail.

"Did you get me a present, too?" Mallory asks.

"Chocolate paddle pop?" Ben asks.

"What's that?"

"Chocolate ice cream on a stick. Kind of like a fudgsicle, only better."

Mallory narrows her eyes at him. "Oh really?"

"Hey," Ben says with a grin, "if you don't want to eat them..."

Mallory snatches one from the box and escapes outside, laughing at Ben's wide eyes. Skip is gnawing on his bone at one end of the verandah. Mallory flops onto the couch and unwraps her paddle pop, shifting the loose pages of her first and second drafts so Ben can sit beside her.

"Your letters are getting longer," he says.

Mallory grins at him. "Uh-huh," she says. "I hope Vanessa is happy with this one."

* * *

"So you and Benny met while he was in America?" Jane leans against the bar with her chin in her hand.

"Yup," Mallory says. "We went to school together."

The pub isn't as crowded tonight, and Jane has time to wander around and chat to people between pouring beers. She settles with Mallory, who is at the bar alone while Ben plays pool with James and two men Ben knows well enough to insult and still have them buy him beer.

"How long was he there for?" Jane asked curiously.

"Four years or so," Mallory said. "His family moved back here when he was fifteen."

"And you stayed friends all this time?" Jane asks. She lowers her voice and gives Mallory a knowing smile. "Or are you more than friends?"

Mallory almost says that Ben was her first kiss – that they're friends now, but once upon a time she had felt butterflies in her stomach just at the mention of his name – but then she realises telling Jane would probably be a bad idea. Gossip spreads fast in a small town, and what's meant to be a cute story could easily become something else; something out of control.

"Just friends," Mallory says, though she's probably hesitated a little too long.

Jane shrugs and props her chin in her hand. "If you say so."

* * *

The sky is alight with stars when Ben and Mallory get home. She stands for a moment, looking up, no city glow to steal the spotlight. Ben stands beside her silently.

"Hey," Mallory says softly, folding her arms across her chest. "Thanks for letting me come and stay with you." She shifts her eyes away from the stars for a moment to look at him. "I know it had a lot of potential to be really weird."

Ben laughs and leans against the side of the ute, his hands in his pockets. "That's okay," he says. "It's not like we're strangers."

"No," Mallory says, and she thinks back over all the letters and emails sent over the years, the occasional phone call that always left her with a smile on her face. "But we haven't seen each other in a long time," she adds. "More than ten years."

"You haven't changed that much," he says. "It's not a big deal, Mal. You needed to get away."

She rocks on her heels, not sure what else to say. He shrugs and puts his arm around her shoulders, and they walk back to the house in silence.

* * *

_Vanessa framed your story. It's hanging above her desk, and she keeps tapping it with her pencil and now the glass has got eraser marks all over it. It's driving me crazy._

_Will you write me one as well?_

_P.S. Anything she's told you about me living here is a total lie._

* * *

A heatwave strikes, and Mallory complains that this is what Hell must be like. Ben laughs at her, but after a few days even he wears down.

It gets too hot to sit out on the verandah. They close the house against the sun and sit in the kitchen, the slate floor keeping it a little cooler than the rest of the house. Skip stretches out in front of the empty fireplace, and Ben declares it An Emergency and keeps the fridge stocked with beer and watermelon.

A fire breaks out somewhere to the west, and brown smoke drifts in a haze around the edges of the sky. Mallory can smell it on the wind, and the radio is full of shifting updates and worried voices.

When the wind changes and the smoke starts to billow in a huge column again, Ben tells her the town fire truck is going out to assist.

"I'll be gone all day tomorrow," he says. "James is coming too, he'll pick me up so you'll have the ute if you need to go somewhere."

"I don't want to drive that thing," Mallory says nervously. "I haven't driven stick in years, and it's all backwards here anyway. I can't use my left hand to change gear."

"You'll be right," Ben insists. He's shaking out a bright yellow jacket with CFA printed on the back, reflective bands around the wrists.

"Is the fire close?" Mallory asks, feeling worried.

"Not as close as it looks," Ben says. "But the crews have been on it for days and our truck's just sitting there waiting." He grins at her. "May as well make ourselves useful."

* * *

Mallory waves goodbye to Ben and James the following morning, clutching Skip's collar as he tries to follow. She lets him go once James' car is almost out of sight, and Skip runs up the road before circling back, panting hard under the hot sun.

"It's just you and me, buddy," Mallory says sympathetically. "But he'll be back later."

She stands on the front verandah for a while, watching the smoke drift in the sky, and then she thinks about what would happen if Ben didn't come back; if something went wrong. If he got hurt, or if the fire swept around and somehow did manage to get to the house and he wasn't there; if she had to try to save it, or run for safety with gears grinding in the ute and Skip on the seat beside her.

She squeezes her fingers into fists and feels the breeze stir her ponytail, curls shifting against the back of her neck. "Come on, Skip," she says. "Let's go in where it's cool."

Skip sleeps under the kitchen table while Mallory writes her fears out on paper, the radio murmuring updates in the corner.

The four o'clock weather update brings news of a cool change spreading across the state, and Mallory stretches and stands on the back verandah, staring up at the mountains and feeling a new softness in the breeze. She shifts her notebook to the couch and sits with her feet braced against the milk crate Ben uses for a footstool, the pages curling under her hand with the weight of ink and pressure.

On the back page, she's got three roughly-written paragraphs, each with its own title: Beginning, Middle, End.

* * *

Clouds are starting to overtake the smoke in the sky when Ben finally comes home, the sun setting blood-red in the west. James drops him at the gate, waving one arm out the window at Mallory as he turns in a circle around the gum tree in the yard and heads towards the road again.

Skip jumps up against Ben's legs, wagging his tail. "Miss me, mate?" Ben asks, rubbing the top of Skip's head. He's already peeled his jacket off, but his t-shirt is soaked with sweat. "Hey," he says to Mallory tiredly.

"Are you okay?" Mallory asks. "Is the fire under control? Has anyone lost their house?"

"No houses lost, I don't think." Ben disappears into the kitchen and emerges with three beers, one of which he passes to Mallory. "A couple of sheds, and there's some stock missing – but they might have made it down to the river. They've got it contained now anyhow."

Mallory can smell the fire on him, burnt eucalyptus, sweat, smoke and hot dust. Charcoal is smudged around the bottom of his yellow uniform. She watches as he drains half of one bottle in two long swallows and walks past her to the bathroom.

"That looks like a bloody long letter you're writing," he calls back to her, turning the cold water on in the bath.

"Well," Mallory says, fingering the corner of one page, her fingers already aching from clutching her pen all day. "How would you feel about a red-headed hero being in my next book?"

Ben pulls his shirt over his head and grins at her. "Wouldn't say no to it," he says.

Mallory smiles and shrugs. "No promises anything will come of it."

"You know," Ben says, hopping on one foot as he tugs his boot off, "I'm a little disappointed your hair isn't as orange as it used to be."

"It was never as orange as yours," Mallory says, keeping her eyes on the page. She can see Ben out of the corner of her eye, stripping off and apparently not caring at all about having the door open. "It's still red in the sun."

"You dyed it darker, didn't you."

"Maybe." She dares a sideways glance at him, but quickly looks away again. "And you," she says, gripping her pen in her fist, "used to wear glasses. But you don't anymore."

"Well," Ben says, "technically, I guess I'm supposed to. Especially when I'm driving."

"That's comforting to know," Mallory retorts. "Maybe it'd be safer if I drove."

Ben laughs. "Maybe." He sinks into the tub with a loud sigh of relief, the water still running. Skip trots in and looks over the lip of the bath expectantly.

"Don't you dare," Ben warns, twisting his next beer open. "If I had to ask someone to join me, Skip, it wouldn't be you."

Mallory grins down at the page in front of her, her cheeks warm.

* * *

Dusk breaks with a thunderstorm that hangs at the edge of the horizon. Mallory and Ben sit on the front step and watch it slowly roll in over the paddocks. The smell of rain mingles with smoke on the wind, and the sky grows darker and darker.

"This will help the fire situation, right?" Mallory asks, leaning against one of the verandah posts. There's no couch out here, the afternoon sun usually making it too hot to sit with much comfort. The wooden boards beneath her are warm under her bare thighs.

"If we get more rain than lightning," Ben says. "A cool change is always good." He leans against the wall of the house, facing her. "So your writer's block came unblocked today, huh?"

"Well," Mallory says cautiously. "I guess. I wouldn't say I'm completely happy with what I wrote, but at least ideas are starting to flow again."

"You just needed a handsome muse." Ben gives her a cheeky grin.

She laughs and looks out towards the storm again. "If you say so." She pulls her ponytail free and takes her time combing her hair between her fingers. "I guess Dave was my muse, before," she says after a moment. Her mouth feel dry and she swallows, not looking up at Ben. "He was – the character in my first book, Daniel?" She glances up at him to make sure he understands. "I guess Daniel was Dave. And Dave was Daniel. I didn't really mean for it to turn out that way. I guess I kind of projected what I wanted with Dave into the book."

"Don't a lot of authors write parts of themselves into their books?" Ben asks.

"I think so," Mallory says, shrugging. "I always have, anyway. I'm not sure it's a good idea to ever admit it, though. And there's a stigma that comes with it, like you shouldn't write something so easy."

Ben pulls a face and sips at his beer. "Snobs," is all he says.

Mallory smiles and rests her foot against the edge of the verandah, her knee under her chin. "Dave didn't like it," she says after a moment. "The book gained momentum and people we knew started asking him about things I'd written. And I hadn't put anything true in there, not really. But he knew me, I guess, and he didn't like that there were so many similarities between this character I'd written, and him."

Ben thinks for a moment. "Why not? Daniel's not a bad character to be compared to."

"I don't know," Mallory says, feeling a familiar weight of miserable guilt in her stomach. "I guess I used the book to try and advance our relationship to a place he wasn't ready for it to go."

"But didn't he read the book before it was published?" Ben asks. "You didn't just spring it on him, did you?"

"He read it," Mallory says. "But his reaction is understandable, I think. I had a different view of my book before it became popular, too. He liked it until it started becoming successful."

"He sounds like a dickhead," Ben says.

Mallory opens her mouth to argue, but closes it again and watches the lightning for a moment, great forks of it threading across the sky. "It doesn't matter, anyway," she says eventually. "We broke up and he found someone else, and now he's getting married."

"Do you love him?" Ben asks.

Mallory glances at him. "I did," she says. "When he left I felt like it was my fault. Like I'd driven him away. I felt like I should have been content with what I had with him instead of putting all these stupid little dreams and fantasies into a novel." She bites her lip, realising she's probably done the same thing with the pages written that afternoon.

"I think you're better off without him," Ben says.

"I think so, too," Mallory answers, but there's still a little ache in her chest. She tips her head back to rest it against the post behind her, and she can feel the thunder tremble through the house as it rolls overhead.

When the rain starts to fall, sparse drops hammering onto the iron roof, Ben pulls her up gently and steps in under the shelter of the verandah. "I'm glad you're writing again," he says. "I think the world needs another Mallory Pike novel or two."

"You think?" Mallory asks. She smiles up at him.

He laces his fingers between hers quietly, his thumb stroking over the heel of her hand. "Definitely."

He kisses her softly, one palm cupped against her cheek, fingertips stirring her hair and tracing gently over the arch of her ear. She sways against him, transported back to chaste kisses of her childhood and the deeper, desperate kisses of a wintry afternoon they had spent in Brenner Field, clutching one another with tears on their skin, wishing they didn't have to part, promising to be in touch always.

"I'm glad you're okay," Ben murmurs, leaning his brow against hers. His fingers slip down over her throat and drop to find her hand again.

She nods quietly, eyes closed. "Yeah," she whispers.

* * *

The storm passes and takes the rain with it, leaving only pock-marked dust and the heavy scent of damp grass around the house.

Mallory slips under the sheets of her bed and stares up at the ceiling, listening to the last traces of thunder dying at the horizon and thinking about the way Ben kissed her. She thinks about her notebook, pages imprinted with words she barely even had to stop and think about; words that came faster than she could write.

She dares to hope there will be more there tomorrow; dares to hope that this could be her next book. She thinks about what it would be like to talk to her publisher about it.

And then she wonders if it's a mistake to have Ben be her muse, because she doesn't think she could lose him after losing Dave.

One heartbreak is more than enough.

* * *

_Wouldn't it be really romantic if you married Ben Hobart, and he was your first kiss_ and _your last kiss?_

_My first kiss was Hunter Bruno, and he's a total asshole now. What was I thinking._

_Vanessa is trying to make me pay rent. I need you to talk to her and tell her she's being an unreasonable dictator._

* * *

Mallory had expected the beach to be packed, but there are barely a dozen other people on the sand. Ben says it'll fill up as the day goes on. He starts talking about how popular the coast is with surfers, and what the temperature is going to be like for the rest of the week, but Mallory finds it hard to concentrate when his hands are smoothing over her back and shoulders, rubbing sunscreen into her skin.

"Lift your hair," he says after a minute, giving the end of her ponytail a tug. She hastily combs it over her shoulder and his palm glides warm against the back of her neck.

"There are no sharks here, right?" she asks after a moment, watching the waves rolling in, white foam hissing against the sand.

"Um." Ben thinks for a minute and Mallory turns and looks at him over her shoulder.

"If you're trying to scare me..." she warns.

He grins. "Look," he says, "every now and then a shark will turn up, but I don't think you have much to worry about."

"That's really comforting," Mallory says. "I'm not going in, now."

He laughs. "Come on," he says. "Out of the two of us, I'm the meatier one. Any shark with a grain of sense would go for me first."

"Ben," Mallory whines.

He laughs and holds the tube of sunscreen over her shoulder, wiggling it in his hand. "Return the favour?" he asks.

She tries to do it briskly. He's got freckles on his shoulders and his skin is a couple of shades darker than her own. She starts to slow down a little, watching the cream absorb away into his skin, and she applies pressure with her thumbs, feeling the shape of the muscles across his back. When she thinks it's starting to become obvious that she's lingering on such a silly little task, she backs away and says, "All done."

Ben grins at her and tugs at her hand. "Come on then."

"Is it going to be cold?" Mallory asks, not feeling as though the day has heated up enough to warrant splashing into the water.

"The Southern Ocean!" Ben shouts over the roar of the waves. "Right off Antarctica!"

She squeals as the water hits her warm skin, but Ben grips her hand and leads her further out. It takes a long time for the water to deepen, but the waves roll up and over her hips before falling down to her knees again, and after a while it's deep enough she has to jump to keep her head over the next wave.

She can't quite get the idea of sharks out of her head, though, so she keeps a hold on Ben's hand. He dips below the next wave and when he comes up his hair is dark and water clings to his lashes.

"So you're not dying to get back to your pens and notebooks?" he asks, steering her weightless body closer to him.

"Not right now."

"But you are writing again," he says, probing for confirmation.

"Yes," Mallory says, and then she adds, "Vanessa will be very pleased with you."

He laughs and hugs his arms tight around her waist so she's pulled up against him, the sunscreen slippery on their skin. "I didn't do much."

"Vanessa and Claire both think you did," Mallory informs him. "You certainly didn't make things worse, anyway."

He laughs and bounces her lightly in the water, rising up over the swell of the next wave. "Does that mean I get a cut of the profit when your next book hits the shelves?"

"Nice try," Mallory says. "The triplets have already tried to claim a share, and I successfully won that argument."

He laughs again and then his lips are pressing against her neck and his thumbs are tracing curls against the small of her back. She tips her head forward and feels the next wave roll against her shoulder blades.

"You kissed me," she reminds him. "When the storm came through, you kissed me."

"I kissed you a lot of times before that," he reminds her, and she can feel his teeth against her shoulder as he grins. "A long time ago, though."

"I liked this one best," she says.

"Yeah, me too." He bobs gently below her, hands on her waist, letting the water lift and drop them slowly. "I reckon we could beat it, though."

"Would you forfeit your claim on any profit you think you're entitled to?" she asks with a smile, drawing back slightly.

His grin widens and his gaze drops to her mouth before he meets her eyes again. "Righto," he says. "I'll accept other forms of payment."

* * *

Despite their best efforts, both Ben and Mallory arrive back at the house sunburnt.

"I'm going to peel," Mallory moans, touching her nose lightly.

"It's not that bad," Ben assures her, and then he has to jump out of the ute to go and release Skip from his chain. Skip races towards Mallory and leaps at her before he tears around the side of the house again, barking.

Ben takes Mallory's hand and squeezes it. "Let him burn off some energy," he says.

Mallory's skin feels stiff with salt, and her hair is rough and curly with it, flyaway around her shoulders. Ben tangles his fingers in it once they're inside and kisses her again. He tastes like heat and ocean.

"Ben," she whispers, shuffling with him into his bedroom, the warm afternoon air blooming and hot at the front of the house. "Will you read what I've written? Will you tell me if it's okay?"

"Right now?" he asks, cupping her face in his hands.

She grins, fists caught in the bottom of his t-shirt. "Not right now. But promise me, if it's bad, if you don't like it, you'll tell me and you'll let me fix it, and you won't be mad."

"I'll love it," he says. His lips brush over her nose and she can feel her hot skin tighten under the warmth of his breath.

"Just don't pretend it's okay, if it's not," she says.

"I'm rotten at lying," he says. "You'd see through me in two seconds." He kisses her again and starts unbuttoning the cotton dress she wore to the beach. "Everything will be okay," he assures her.

"You're worth more to me than any amount of books on the shelf," she whispers.

He slides his hands through her open dress and lifts her up against him. She pulls her fingers slowly through his hair and, when he sinks to the edge of his bed, curls her legs around his waist, settling into his lap. He slips her dress over her shoulders and lets it drop to the floor, murmuring something soft against her collarbone, light fingertips against the pink skin on her shoulders.

When she pulls his shirt over his head, she presses a thumb against a freckle on his chest, and watches the skin fade from yellow back to rose again.

"I think you got it worse than I did," Ben says. He trails a light touch down her spine, causing her to arch towards him.

"It's not so bad at the moment," she assures him, though she can still feel the heat of the sun across her shoulders.

Ben starts mouthing soft kisses against her throat, hands spanning wide over her back until his fingers pull the strings of her bathing suit undone. Salt prickles on her skin and she can taste it on Ben's lips still, and somewhere in her chest and the back of her head the ocean is still swaying.

When Ben falls back against the unmade bed and his fingers press between her thighs, she leans her palms against his shoulders, trailing her fist down until it's clenched over his heart, his pulse beating in time with hers. Her hair, alight with the sun through the window, sweeps over his chest, and he winds his hand into it and kisses her when she finally lowers herself over him, breathing hard against his cheek, hips rolling slowly.

His knees are still draped over the edge of the bed, and the floor creaks under the heels of his feet as he pushes up against her, a soft noise dying at the back of his throat. She can feel the sun trapped under the surface of her skin, and he wakes it with every brush of his hands against her, her thighs aching as her knees dig into the mattress beside his hips.

He lifts himself, bracing his weight with one hand, curling his other arm around her waist to drag her down against him, thrusting slowly, eyes closed against the arch of her neck. She puts her arms around his shoulders and can't silence the hum in her throat, the way her breath gasps softly in and out. She whispers his name against his ear and feels him shudder, his fingers tightening against her hip. She tips her head forward against his shoulder and her hips rock against him, the heat deeper than her skin now.

She leans her brow against Ben's, but it hurts, her skin too tight, so she presses her lips there instead, breathing in the ocean scent from his hair, and she sighs against his temple when he rocks beneath her. Sweat is slick behind her knees and at the small of her back, and she can feel the heavy damp weight of Ben's breath against her throat, the wide print of his hand on her hip. When he strokes a slick thumb between her legs she shudders and tightens around him, eyes closed and head tipped back, red curls spilling down between her shoulders. Ben thrusts up against her again and makes that same soft noise, fingers digging into her flesh, his hands dragging her as close as he can get her until they both stop twitching, hearts hammering in their chests, the air loud and rushed with their breath.

Mallory lets herself fall, separating herself, smiling as the air rolls cool over her damp skin. Ben follows her and drapes a heavy arm over her waist, seeking her hand.

"Will you put that in the book?" he asks, breath hot between her shoulder blades, a laugh trembling soft in his throat.

Mallory laughs with him, the mattress dipping as she shifts back against him again. "Never publish the first draft," she says.

He presses a kiss against her spine, tongue gathering the trace of salt on her skin. "It's okay," he whispers. "There's time for a second."

* * *

Mallory dances a little under the shower spray until she gets the temperature right, needing cool water against her sunburn. She washes the sea and the sand out of her hair, washes Ben off her skin. When she walks into the kitchen, hair damp around her shoulders, Ben is sitting at the table reading through her notebook. She grins when she sees he's wearing his glasses, but even that is not quite enough to quell the butterflies in her stomach.

"Is it okay?" she asks.

He grins up at her, his fingers marking his spot on the page. "I like this guy," he says. "We've got a lot in common."

"Oh, fancy that," Mallory says, rolling her eyes. But she's breathless with relief. "So," she says hesitantly, "if I really started writing this properly, you'd be okay with it? If I showed it to people, and people read it?"

He tips back in his chair. "Mal," he says, "I read your book over and over when it came out. I tried to write to you and tell you how much I loved it, but I never felt like what I was saying was right. What I felt seemed a lot more than what I could really explain..." He shrugs and looks up at her sheepishly. "I'm no good with words."

"You're not bad," Mallory whispers.

He runs his hand back and forth over the pages in front of him, tracing the indentations her pen has made in the paper. "I hate that you blame your book for everything," he says. "I know it must be hard not to when things seemed to fall apart after it took off, but when Vanessa wrote to me and told me you didn't even want to pick up a pen again...

"That didn't seem like the Mallory Pike I remembered. And I just want you to know – and I know it might be too late now, and I know I should've told you this when you really needed it, but – that book, Mal, I looked everywhere for it. I bought so many copies of the damn thing I had to start giving them away to people. I gave one to Jane and I think that was the best publicity I could have given you."

Mallory laughs, her throat closing up a little. She steps around the table and Ben takes her hand.

"I liked being able to share you with people," Ben says softly. "America's a long way from here and you were always what I missed most about it. Having a little piece of you here with me was pretty great." He smiles at her and squeezes her hand. "Your book made my life a little bit better."

Mallory can feel a lump in her throat. She looks down at their hands for a moment and twists her bare foot against the slate floor. "Well," she whispers, "I guess it wasn't all bad, then."

"Nah." He kisses the back of her hand. "Not all bad."

She wipes her eyes and gives him a watery smile. "I think that's the most I've ever heard you talk," she says.

He laughs. "Well, chalk that up to the book too," he says. "It can do amazing things."

She touches his cheek softly, brushes her thumb against the edge of his mouth. "I guess it got me here," she says. "I'll always be thankful for that."

* * *

_If you're going to stay in Australia and write and have a torrid love affair with Ben Hobart, the least you could do is insist Claire pays her rent on time._

_P.S. Don't forget to send me the next chapter; I'm dying to see what happens next._


	37. Telephone

**Title/Prompt:** Telephone  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 2363  
**Summary: **Five times Claudia and Stacey did not talk about boys.

**Notes:** So this chapter is quite different to all of my others, in that - *gasp* - I've set it during early canon and I've tried to keep true to the original tone/voice of the books. So I guess I'm a little nervous about this one.

It ticks off quite a few challenges I've set for myself lately though - _gen_battle_ on dreamwidth is in full swing this week, and I took the prompts _bechdel test, telephone, bedroom_ from the Claudia & Stacey prompts. Also, there is a Five Things fic challenge at _theaviary_ (also on dreamwidth) which this fic will fit, so yay!

Thank you, as always, for your kind reviews, messages, adds and subscribes :) You're all lovely.

Thank you muchly to my lovely betas _isabelquinn_ and _luxken27._

* * *

- 1 -

Claudia groaned as her phone rang. She had just reached her favourite part in _The Secret in the Old Attic_, and she was in no mood for interruption. She waited a beat before she sighed and reached for the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Claudia. It's Stacey."

Claudia's heart lifted. "Oh, hi! What's up?"

"Nothing much." There was a long second or two of silence. "I just – I just wanted to thank you for inviting me to the Baby-sitters Club meeting today," Stacey said. "It'll be nice to make some new friends and have something to do."

Claudia smiled and rolled onto her back, resting her open book across her chest. "Don't mention it. Kristy and Mary Anne both seemed pretty impressed with you."

Stacey gave a small laugh. "Well, they're nice," she said.

Claudia waited for a 'but', but it didn't come. "You like them, right?" she asked anxiously. Kristy and Mary Anne didn't exactly seem like the type of friends Stacey might choose for herself, and Claudia was suddenly worried that introducing them might have been a mistake.

"Oh, I do like them!" Stacey said immediately. "I really do. It's just – it's obvious you guys all know each other really well. Like, you've known each other for a long time."

"Hey, don't worry about that," Claudia said, propping herself up on her elbows. "You're going to fit right in. I promise." She hesitated for a moment before she added, "To be honest, I've kind of... grown apart from Kristy and Mary Anne over the past year. Just because we're all in the Club doesn't mean we all have to hang out together all the time. Maybe we could go to the mall or something sometime? Me and you, I mean."

"That'd be great," Stacey said excitedly. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I do really like Kristy and Mary Anne, and I love the idea of the Club, but I'm really glad you and I are in it together. I don't think I would have said yes if Kristy had asked me instead of you."

Claudia felt a rush of pride and pleasure. "No problem," she said. "So, maybe we could go to the mall on Saturday?"

"Great!" Stacey cried. "I really need a new pair of jeans."

"I really liked the pair you had on today," Claudia said enviously.

"You can borrow them sometime, if you like," Stacey said generously.

"Wow, thanks!" Claudia exclaimed. She didn't really care if the jeans wouldn't fit – it was nice to receive an offer. "You can borrow any of my stuff, too."

"Thanks," Stacey said happily. "Anyway, I'd better go. I want to check over my math homework again."

Claudia wrinkled her nose. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

"We're supposed to meet Kristy and Mary Anne at recess, remember?"

"I remember," Claudia said. "But I'll see you before then."

"Totally," Stacey agreed. "Anyway – thanks again, Claud. I think the Club is going to be a lot of fun. I'm glad you thought of me."

Claudia smiled and shrugged to herself. "No problem," she said. "I'm glad you said yes."

"Well – bye," Stacey said.

"Bye, Stace." Claudia hung up and flopped back in her pillow, hugging her book to her chest, no longer irritated about her favourite chapter being interrupted.

- 2 -

Claudia had been in the same position for so long she was starting to go numb. But no matter how long she stared at it, her math homework still wasn't making any sense.

She glanced at the clock guiltily. It was getting late, and it was Sunday night – her math test was going to start in like... However many hours.

She winced and shook her head before she reached for the phone.

"Hello?"

She winced again and silently cursed her own bad luck. "Hi, Mrs. McGill. It's Claudia Kishi. I'm really sorry to call so late, but I have a question about my math homework, and I was hoping Stacey could help me."

"Just a moment, Claudia."

Claudia breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Mrs. McGill sounded pretty sympathetic. Claudia immediately made it a personal rule to never call and lie about needing help with homework when really all she wanted was advice on what to wear the next day.

"Claud?"

"Hi, Stace," Claudia mumbled. "Have you finished your math homework?"

"Yeah. You need help?"

"Yeah."

"What question are you up to?"

"Um..." Claudia wondered briefly if she should lie. "The first one," she admitted.

"Okay," Stacey said. "Just hang on a second."

Claudia could hear the flipping of pages and paper. She felt guilty and ashamed, but she'd _tried_. She really had. "It's probably really easy," she said softly.

"Don't worry about it, Claud," Stacey dismissed. "Okay, so – this one isn't too bad. There's a really easy rule to remember..."

"Everyone always says that," Claudia said, frustrated. "The rules never stay in my head."

"Well, let's just take it one step at a time," Stacey said patiently.

"Hey, Stace?" Claudia interrupted softly.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think I'll make it to eighth grade?"

"Of course you will!" Stacey said. "And I'm going to help you, so stop worrying and open your math book, okay?"

- 3 -

Claudia had just rolled herself out of bed when her phone rang. She reached for it sleepily, and her voice was husky when she spoke. "'Lo?" she asked.

"Did I wake you?" Stacey asked. "I thought you'd be getting ready for school."

"I am, I am." Claudia clutched the phone to her ear as she pulled her closet doors open.

"I need some wardrobe advice," Stacey admitted. "I want to wear the denim miniskirt I bought at the mall on Saturday –"

"Uh-huh," Claudia said, pulling a shirt off a hanger and holding it up. She wrinkled her nose and dropped it to the floor before she rummaged further.

"But I can't decide what to wear with it," Stacey said. "I was thinking maybe keeping it simple with a black turtleneck, but my skin looks so washed out lately. Maybe if I wear some lip gloss?"

"Hm..." Claudia leaned against her closet door for a second and tried to picture Stacey's (much neater) assortment of clothing. "You have a pink turtleneck, right?"

"You think pink would be better?" Stacey asked. "I dunno – it makes the whole thing seem kind of young. Black is more sophisticated."

"But black is making you look washed out," Claudia reminded her. "Pink will pick up the warmer undertones in your skin. Maybe you could wear the pink and pull your hair back? Work some severity into your hairstyle instead of your clothes."

"Oh, I hadn't thought about that," Stacey breathed. She sounded impressed, and Claudia allowed herself to feel smug for a moment. "What are you wearing today?" Stacey asked.

"I haven't decided yet," Claudia answered. She tilted her head and frowned. "If I wear pink too, it might be awkward, right?"

"Maybe," Stacey admitted. "It might look like we're trying to dress similarly."

"I'll figure something out," Claudia dismissed. "I think I'll wear some beaded necklaces today – maybe I'll build an outfit around those."

"Can't wait to see it," Stacey said. "I'd better get going, anyway. I don't want to be late. I'll see you at school."

"Okay," Claudia agreed. "Bye."

- 4 -

Claudia thought for a moment about letting her answering machine take the call for her, but she knew, somehow, that it would be Stacey – even though she'd only left ten minutes ago.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

Claudia fell back onto her pillow and blinked back tears. "Hey."

"I don't know what to do," Stacey said helplessly, and Claudia knew she was crying again. "I don't think I have any choice but to go back to New York with my parents."

"Maybe we can figure something out," Claudia said tearfully. "I mean, I'm probably not clever enough, but maybe you'll come up with something. Or I could ask Janine – she might know things about this that we don't."

"Maybe," Stacey answered, but she didn't sound excited or hopeful anymore. "I wish you could come with me."

"Me too," Claudia said wistfully. "But not as much as I wish you were just staying here."

"Yeah," Stacey whispered. "And – Claud?"

"Yeah?"

"When you were saying all that stuff before – about best friends, and..." Stacey drew an audible breath. "You're my best friend, too. Of course you are. And I mean – I mean, more than Laine."

Claudia felt her heart beat a little faster, and it was wonderful and terrible at the same time. "I am?"

"Of course you are. I've never had a best friend like you." Stacey sniffed. "When I found out about my diabetes – Laine changed. Things between us changed. So I need to ask you something."

"Anything," Claudia said, smearing tears across her cheek with her fingers.

"If I move back to New York," Stacey said, "promise me things won't change too much. Not more than they have to. Promise you'll still be my best friend."

"I promise," Claudia said. She let out a sob she'd been trying to smother. "No amount of distance between us will ever change the fact that you were my first best friend – and you will _always_ be my best friend."

"I hope so," Stacey said, her voice trembling. "I don't know how I'm going to get through school tomorrow."

"Me either," Claudia said. "School sucks enough already."

Stacey managed a laugh. "It's not so bad."

"If you're a brain," Claudia muttered. "Who's going to help me with my math homework now?"

"I can still help you," Stacey said immediately. "And Claud, you're really smart. Just because your brain doesn't hold numbers so well doesn't mean you're not. I mean, I don't know a thing about art."

Claudia managed a smile. "You know more about it now that you know me, right?"

"Right," Stacey agreed. She laughed again and breathed a sigh. "Listen," she said tiredly, "I'd better go. I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe a solution will come to one of us in a dream."

"Maybe," Claudia answered, but she had to admit she was fast running out of any hope. "I'd give up junk food if it meant you could stay," she said.

Stacey started to laugh again. "Now I _really_ know you're going to miss me."

Claudia laughed too. She rolled over and pressed the phone to her ear, giggling, listening to Stacey's laughter on the other end of the line.

- 5 -

Claudia had long since cried herself out. All that was left now was a horrible, hollow sort of a feeling and a vague headache.

When her phone rang, she pulled her pillow over her head and listened to the machine pick up.

"Hey, Claud," Stacey's voice said softly. "It's just me. I thought you might want to talk, but... Anyway. I guess I just wanted to say I'm here, if you want to talk for a while."

Claudia reached for the phone before Stacey could hang up, letting her pillow fall to the floor. "I'm here."

"Hey," Stacey said warmly. "You okay?"

"No," Claudia answered. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall.

"No, of course not," Stacey said. "Sorry. That was a stupid question. I guess it's just habit."

"It's all right," Claudia assured her quietly. She closed her eyes and curled into a ball. "The house is really quiet," she whispered. "Like, I don't think it's ever really _loud_, but it seems so quiet right now."

"Where is everyone?"

"Mom and Dad are downstairs. I think Janine is in her room, but I'm not sure. Maybe I should go and see if she's okay."

"Hey, this might sound strange," Stacey said hesitantly, "but I think Mimi would have liked today, Claud. I mean, everyone talking about her, and remembering her. Everyone I spoke to today had really lovely memories of her."

Claudia smiled and felt her eyes ache again. "Yeah."

"So, are you going to school on Monday?"

"I guess so," Claudia answered. "To be honest, it might be kind of nice to have a distraction."

Stacey mock-gasped. "You're looking _forward_ to school?"

Claudia actually laughed. "I never said _that_."

Stacey giggled. "I know what you mean. I bet everyone's looking forward to having you back."

Claudia smiled a little. "Maybe." She rubbed a hand across her brow and tried to will her headache away. "Thanks for staying so long today."

"That's okay," Stacey said immediately. "Any time. Just – I mean, if you need anything at all, just ask."

"Thanks," Claudia said softly. She drew a deep, slow breath. "Listen," she sighed, "I think I'm going to try to sleep for a bit. I feel really tired."

"Oh, sure," Stacey said. "Call me tomorrow?"

"I promise," Claudia answered swiftly. "Even when I don't feel like talking – it's always different with you." She smiled and rolled over again to stare up at her ceiling. She didn't want to say goodbye, so instead she said, "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Stace."

"Talk to you tomorrow, Claud."


	38. Snack

**Title/Prompt:** Snack  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 1254  
**Summary: **It's the middle of the night, and Sam has realised Dad isn't coming home.

**Notes:** Ugh, this was originally going to be a _fandom_stocking_ gift for _luxken27_, but I got stuck on it. Guilty, again, of trying to make the idea too big for myself :p So I scaled it back and finished up with this!

* * *

Sam is being as quiet as possible. The house is dark and cold, but there's light peeking from the open door of Mom's bedroom. He tiptoes towards it and peers inside.

Mom is sitting up in bed, knees bent, twirling her rings around her finger. She looks up and smiles at him, straightening her legs.

"Hey, Toucan Sam," she says. "Can't sleep?"

He's eight – too old to crawl into bed, seeking refuge from shadows and whispers of night time. But he clambers up beside her anyway and sinks his head onto Dad's pillow. Mom ruffles his hair gently and the wind beats up against the windows. Sam watches the curtains move, even though the windows are shut. He presses his face into the pillow, feeling tired, feeling scared and sad.

"It's windy out, huh," Mom says, stroking her fingers against Sam's ear.

"Yeah," he says. His breath is hot against the pillow and it's hard to breathe, so he turns over again and looks up at her. He can almost see her skull through her skin, like she's wearing a Halloween mask. But it doesn't scare him. Just makes him sad, and makes him wonder how much later he'd have to stay up until he got tired enough to look like that.

"Is Charlie asleep?" Mom asks.

"Yeah."

She strokes his ear again and it tickles. He smiles at her, but there's still an ache in his throat. When she smiles back at him, he thinks she's aching too.

"Saturday tomorrow," Mom whispers.

Sam nods. Dad was supposed to take him to Brenner Field last weekend, to show him how to throw a football so it spins in the air. And he's spent all week hoping Dad will come home in time to take him this weekend...

He presses his face into Dad's pillow again. Mom's fingers pull slowly through his hair, and the wind slams up against the house again, rattling the shutters and making everything creak and groan.

"What do you want to do tomorrow?" Mom asks.

Sam can feel tears welling. "I want to go to Brenner Field with Dad," he says.

Mom slides down on the bed and wraps her arms tight around him, kissing the top of his head. Sam lets himself cry for a moment, because it's too hard not to, and Charlie's not there to see him.

"I can take you to Brenner Field, honey," Mom says.

"But..." Sam sobs and doesn't bother explaining why he doesn't want her to. Charlie has already told him – more than once – that they all have to be extra nice to Mom, and Sam doesn't want to hurt her feelings. But she can't teach him how to throw a football so it spins.

Rain starts to lash against the windows, and Sam's heart sinks even further. Even if Dad does come home, he won't want to go to Brenner Field in the rain.

Mom kisses Sam's forehead. He doesn't even try to wriggle away; just lets her.

"I'm hungry," Mom says. "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah," Sam says in a small voice, though he's not really. Not much. Only a little bit.

"Want a midnight snack?"

A thrill races up Sam's spine. He pulls back far enough to see her face, to see if she's just trying to trick him. "Really?"

"Sure," Mom says. She pushes Sam's hair back with her palm and smiles at him. "What do you want? We could make some sandwiches. Or popcorn. Or open a bag of chips and share a soda."

Sam's stomach flutters at the thought. "Do we have any cookies?" he whispers hopefully, looking up at her.

Mom thinks for a moment. "I'm not sure. But I think we could make some."

Sam thinks about this carefully. "Just you and me?"

"If you're quiet," Mom whispers, and she tickles him so he has to squirm away, pulling the blankets up so she can't get at him, giggling as quietly as he can.

She pulls the blankets back down so she can see his face. "Chocolate chip?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and his mouth is already watering.

"Come on," Mom says, and she pulls him by the hand. "Let's go."

Sam follows her downstairs. He keeps hold of her hand until she flicks the lights on in the kitchen, and then he sits at the counter and watches her as she pulls tubs of flour and sugar out of the cupboard. She sits the bag of chocolate chips in front of him, and doesn't say anything when he sneaks one out of the packet and puts it into his mouth.

She lets him stir the ingredients together, and they both taste test carefully as they mound balls of dough on a baking tray.

Sam presses chocolate chips into the top of each one. He puts a smiley face on one of them for Mom, and a C and a K on two others so Charlie and Kristy won't feel too bad about missing out. David Michael, he figures, is too little to really mind.

Mom pours two glasses of milk. Through the glass door of the oven, lit by a warm yellow glow, Sam can see the cookies slowly spreading out. He only takes his eyes off them for a moment, when a car passes slowly down the street outside. Both he and Mom watch it pass from the kitchen window, and his heart beats loudly in his chest as it disappears into the rain.

"Hey," Mom says softly, turning from the window, "I think I might call Nannie tomorrow. I bet she'd bring some cookies if she came over."

"But tell her not to bring chocolate chip," Sam says seriously. "We've already got some."

"No chocolate chip," Mom agrees.

When she pulls the first tray from the oven, the whole kitchen fills with the smell of warm cookies. Sam's stomach growls, even though he's only just the tiniest bit hungry.

"They're hot," Mom warns, so she puts them on the cooling rack and they scrape the rest of the dough into a second batch as they wait for the warm cookies to cool down.

"This is the best midnight snack ever," Sam decides, just as Mom is closing the oven door again.

Mom smiles at him. "I think so, too." She hands him a cookie that's still warm and soft from the oven. Sam breaks it in half and bites into it cautiously, but it's not so hot he can burn himself on it now.

"Can we have popcorn next time?" he asks. He cups his hands around his glass of milk and takes a large gulp, spluttering a little as it washes cookie crumbs down his throat.

"I'll think about it," Mom says, which Dad always says is her way of saying no. But she smiles at Sam, so he thinks she really will think about it, and maybe her answer will be yes.

"But," she says, "a midnight snack is only special if it doesn't happen every night."

"Just every now and then," Sam says, consciously trying to dampen his current excitement. "Just as a special treat."

"That's right," Mom says softly. She smiles at him and holds her glass of milk out. Sam clunks his own against it.


	39. Bite

**Title/Prompt:** Bite  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 1400  
**Summary: **Stacey poked the chicken tentatively. "Okay," she breathed. "Stacey McGill, the next time you decide to be all romantic and domestic, don't choose something so... overwhelming."

**Notes:** So um, I might be answering my own prompt from the _BSC prompt meme_. (There's a link to this in my profile if anyone wants to join in! Anyone can prompt stuff - you don't need a dw account to reply to the post.) I wanted curtain fic - something domestic/fluffy/simple, and IDK Stacey and Robert decided to take over? It's kind of my head canon that Stacey would like to make an effort with things like cooking and domesticity but kind of fail helplessly at it all the same.  
Also I have this set in the same universe as _Silk_ (ch33), but much earlier than that fic takes place, and you certainly don't have to read that one in order to understand this one. I doubt it matters at all, I'm just mentioning it because that's where my head is at. ;)

* * *

Stacey kicked her shoes off as soon as she made it through the door, hefting the grocery bags in her arms. Robert followed and pushed the door closed with his elbow.

"It's funny how I can wait like half an hour for you to dawdle your way to a movie date with me, but at the first sign of rain you start sprinting," he said, nudging her as he passed on his way to the kitchen.

"Shut up," she said, poking her tongue out at him when he looked back over his shoulder at her. She tossed her hair, wrinkling her nose at the damp feel of it against her cold skin. It was just drizzling outside, but it was enough to send her hair into unruly fluff. She dumped the groceries on the kitchen counter and ran her fingers through it, hoping to tame it back to a more effortless curl.

The kitchen was gleaming, and Stacey cast a nervous glance at the oven. Cooking was not exactly her strong point, but it had occurred to her that cooking a meal for her boyfriend – a real, proper meal – would be romantic, and she had been taken with the idea of preparing something for him from scratch.

And Robert wasn't exactly going to turn down an offer of food. Ever.

"Maybe this was a bad idea," Stacey said, watching him pull the packaged chicken from the grocery bag. "Maybe I should start with something smaller."

"Where's the fun in that?" Robert asked, grinning at her. "What do you need, and what do you want me to put away?"

Stacey grimaced and pulled the recipe book down from the shelf. The spine still creaked when she opened it, and the pages were glossy and clean.

Together, she and Robert put away the groceries they didn't immediately need, and then he leaned against the kitchen counter and watched her with a grin on his face.

"You are so not allowed to watch me do this," Stacey said, turning her attention back to the chicken, reluctantly.

"Well," he countered, "once I leave the kitchen, you're on your own, McGill. No asking for help."

Stacey opened her mouth, but couldn't bring herself to dismiss him entirely. "Okay," she said eventually, "but no laughing."

"No promises."

Stacey unwrapped the chicken and poked at it tentatively. "Oh, my god," she said suddenly, "Robert, this thing doesn't still have the – the _stuff_ inside it, does it?"

She could see he was already struggling to contain his amusement. "The what?"

"The _innards_." Stacey bulged her eyes at him. "How about I do the vegetables, and you do the chicken?"

"The deal was _you_ were going to cook the entire meal for _me_," Robert said.

"I'll _cook_ it," Stacey said. "I just don't want to _prepare_ it."

"What did you think this was going to be?" Robert asked, taking a step towards the chicken. "You suggested it – I didn't have anything to do with this decision."

Stacey bent her knees and squinted, trying to see into the cavity of the chicken. "Don't they usually put everything in a bag and like – stuff it back inside? Do I just have to pull the bag out?"

Robert pulled the packaging closer. "Remove innards manually," he read.

"Liar," Stacey accused. She leaned over and inspected the packaging. Her stomach sank as she read the instructions printed on the label. "Why didn't we see that before we bought it? I know for a fact you can buy... clean chicken."

Robert laughed. "Clean chicken?"

"Well – chicken you don't have to empty!" She turned back to it, feeling increasingly hesitant about the whole thing. "This is so gross."

Robert laughed. "Just reach in and feel around."

"No!" Stacey squealed. "That's disgusting!" She grabbed his arm and pulled him closer. "You do it. I'll chop the vegetables. Meat is more of a guy thing anyway."

"The next time you smack me for saying something stupid in regards to gender equality, I'm going to remind you of this moment," he warned her.

"I just don't want to touch anything that can be referred to as guts," Stacey said. "Please?" She thrust her lower lip out at him and he laughed again.

"So this is what living with you is like," he said, moving to the sink to wash his hands. "I kind of pictured you begging for stuff, but in my mind it was always –"

"Robert," she groaned, rolling her eyes.

He laughed again and towelled his hands dry. "Okay." He reached into the chicken, and Stacey couldn't help but clap her hands to her mouth.

"That's so gross," she breathed.

"Where do you want me to put it?" Robert asked, wrinkling his nose at her. "Better get me a dish or something, Stace."

She danced on the spot for a moment. "I don't want you to put it anywhere!" she exclaimed. But she grabbed one of the empty grocery bags and tossed it towards him. "In there. And then you take it straight out, like, to the trash chute."

She turned away when Robert pulled out a handful of – whatever it was – and winced when she heard it all hit the bottom of the grocery bag. "Gross," she groaned. "Did you get it all? Don't leave any in there. I don't want to take a bite of chicken kidney."

Robert laughed and felt around inside the chicken again. "I think I got it all."

"You think?" Stacey asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

"Do you want to double check for me?"

"That's not even remotely funny," she sniffed.

He laughed and moved to the sink again. Stacey watched him rinse the chicken beneath the running water and then pat it dry with paper towel.

"All yours, Toots," he said, kissing her forehead. He snatched up the bag of chicken innards and disappeared with it.

Stacey poked the chicken tentatively. "Okay," she breathed. "Stacey McGill, the next time you decide to be all romantic and domestic, don't choose something so... overwhelming."

It wasn't so bad after that. Robert came back and they stood side by side at the counter as the cloud shifted outside and scattered more rain against the window. Stacey gingerly rubbed the chicken with spices. They chopped vegetables in a stupidly-synchronised rhythm, and Robert stuffed the chicken without once teasing Stacey about having to do it.

"Why did you let me choose something so ambitious?" Stacey asked him as he slid the pan into the oven.

"Two reasons," he said, straightening up slowly. "Because you're stubborn as hell and won't be talked out of anything once you set your mind to it." He grinned at her. "And," he continued, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow, "I kind of like it when you're ambitious."

She smiled up at him. "You do?"

"Yeah."

She frowned worriedly. "What if this tastes really, really bad?"

"We'll throw the recipe book out." Robert's hands cupped her waist.

"What if we don't cook it properly? What if we take a big bite of raw chicken?" She widened her eyes, not really worried (not _really_), but in the mood to gain more reassurance, even if it was slightly false.

"You're taking the first bite," Robert said. "And it'll be safe, because we'll cook it to the point of it being all dried out and crispy."

"Okay," she agreed, rolling her eyes a little. She stretched up on her toes to kiss him. "Well, so far, the entire venture has been a success."

"Agreed," Robert said, grinning. "And now we have what – like, a spare hour and a half on our hands?" He kissed her cheek, and her mouth.

"Hm," Stacey said thoughtfully. "I'm not so sure you have time for anything. I seem to remember you offering to make dessert."

"Sorbet," Robert said innocently. "I'll make it as far as scooping it out of the tub goes."

Stacey laughed and kissed him again. "I think I can accept that deal."


	40. Depression

**Title/Prompt:** Depression  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 1305  
**Summary: **He loses his wife and his faith in the same night.

**Warning:** Strong focus on grief and death.

**Notes:** This has been building in my head for a week or so, and I finally decided to just do it. I'm a little unsure about it, but it's the first thing I've managed to finish in a while, and it feels like a release to get it all out. Thank you to** lucida **for being the second pair of eyes on this.

* * *

The end begins to feel too far away.

Every second is a last second, nothing to be gained back again, but Richard can't help wishing for it all to go a little faster, for the end to just be _over_ so he can start whatever comes after. Her hand is warm and dry, fingers tucked in against his palm like a thousand times before.

But her breath is not right, and the light beneath her skin is wrong. Shadows have moved in.

* * *

He watches her last breath fall light and free into the sterile air of the hospital. Her chest doesn't rise again, but he grips her hand anyway, wanting to pull her back with will. When he rests his head down against her shoulder, his face is wet with tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, because he didn't really mean to wish her away like that. (Now it's too late to take it back.)

* * *

He can feel people watching him, the whole day, and he hates it. He hates being the centre of attention. It was how he found Alma, really – them both trying to fly so low beneath the radar they crashed into one another in the library and tangled.

He stares at the floor of the church and tries not to think about all the things that are wrong.

Alma hadn't wanted much. She had specifically _not_ wanted a lot of things, but who is he to deny Bill and Verna their choices in these final moments with her.

_I'm sorry_, he thinks, but the thought is swept out again as he tells himself she can't hear his apology. She's in a box just a few feet away, a box that looks too small to hold her, but she can't hear him. She doesn't know he's there.

He can't feel her anymore; she's gone.

He keeps his eyes on the floor and he tries not to think about all the eyes watching him.

* * *

He couldn't get the funeral right – couldn't stand up for what Alma had really wanted, so how is he going to stand up for his daughter at all? Fatherhood has been bruised and thundered by the cancer; every shining moment with Mary Anne competing with the grief and heartache over Alma.

He wants to do it right, but he has no idea how. Mary Anne is all he has left now, and he's all _she_ has. It makes it hard to swallow; fear sticks in his throat and all he can do is sit and think of questions he never asked Alma – things she knew and never told him.

He doesn't want to let Mary Anne go – not at all – but he can't figure out how to look at her just yet; he can't figure out how to focus all of his attention on her.

When Verna says he needs to get back on his feet first, he can't help but think she's right.

So he lets her go, and he thinks he should be committing every detail of his daughter's face to memory, lingering over his farewell with her because every moment is precious. But he just touches her cheek with his finger, thinks _I love you, sweetheart_, and won't watch as Verna carries her away.

* * *

The house is big and empty, and he can still see Alma's fingerprints in places. He smears them away with his thumbs, and then he takes a cloth out from beneath the sink and polishes everything until it seems like there's nothing left of her at all, no surface left the way it was when she last touched it.

He strips the bed and refuses to sleep in it; he dozes in the armchair in front of the empty fireplace as the nights drag on.

He starts to talk to her sometimes, but not out loud.

_Do you think I've done the wrong thing?_ he asks, and he listens to the clock tick above the mantel and he hates the silence, and he hates, hates that he can't feel her. Hates that she hasn't given him some sign that she is still there, somehow, like he had always believed she would be.

He can't believe it now, because he knows she'd be trying everything to let him know she's there, and there's nothing. Nothing.

He would give anything to be haunted.

* * *

He went to church every Sunday with Alma, but he can't stomach it now.

The creak of a pew or the soft ruffle of bible paper is enough to bring the stifled air of the funeral back into his lungs. He can feel the weight of sorrow and judgement across his shoulders.

He can't bring himself to believe it would make a difference, anyway. He can't even pretend to feel her disappointment or her worry.

He tries so hard sometimes. He keeps his eyes open and tries to catch movement in the corners of the room, a second reflection in the bathroom mirror, the scent of perfume in the air. He tries to fool himself, just for comfort, just for a moment of faith, but he can't.

* * *

Verna doesn't want to give him his daughter back.

He's not sure he has a right to argue for her. What good is it anyway, him just a shell and trying to fumble his way through his own life without the worry of another soul here with him.

He can't possibly give her what she deserves.

* * *

One Saturday morning he wakes up with his face buried in Alma's pillow, and he can still smell her shampoo there, deep down, and the clean smell of the night cream she would rub into her hands and face before she reached for her book each night.

He lurches back to his side of the bed and curses himself for tossing and turning so much.

And then he throws her pillow to the other side of the room, hating it as much as it's possible to hate something so simple and useless.

* * *

He puts her pillow back, later. Almost apologises to it, but catches himself and feels foolish. He smooths the cotton slip under his palm and wonders how he will ever explain that scent to Mary Anne, that night scent that kept so close to the curve of her mother's cheek.

His throat tightens at the thought of having to explain anything to her.

He could evade it, if he wanted to. (But he doesn't want to.)

He's afraid of winning her back. He'll not just be a widower, he'll be a single father, and he doesn't know any other single fathers, not a one.

He was ordinary when he had Alma. He can't hide behind ordinary anymore.

* * *

It's been so long that Mary Anne is far heavier than he thought she would be, her wispy hair darker and curling at the ends.

She fusses and cries almost all the way home. When she finally falls asleep, a frown marks her brow, a little crease across the bridge of her tiny nose, and he doesn't know how to make it go away. He's not sure how to keep her happy.

When he puts her to bed in the pink and white room with the curtains chosen by Alma, he feels overwhelmed to the point of hollowness. There's an ache behind his eyes he can't dismiss as he looks down into the crib, Mary Anne's chubby little hands clutching at the air.

He strokes her cheek gently and she smiles an achingly-familiar smile up at him, eyes dark and shining. He feels his heart lift in his chest, his next intake of breath sharp and clean as something real, something _found_ settles there.

He has just been looking for her in the wrong places.


	41. Record

**Title/Prompt:** Record  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 2162  
**Summary: **AU. _And could you explain, Captain Pike, why your ship was docked alongside an abandoned transport junker?_

**Notes:** Oh, man. IDEK where this came from. Things you should probably know, though: This has come about because of me rewatching _Firefly_, and it's based on a scene from an episode called _Bushwhacked_, where all the members of the firefly-class spaceship Serenity are interrogated over the same event, each of them reacting to the interview in various ways. And then I was all, "I have to do this with Pikes," and so... I did it with Pikes.  
People in the Firefly 'verse have quite a distinctive way of speaking, with certain slang etc, and given the way my silly brain decided to write this, it turned out to be really challenging trying to keep the characters' voices recognisable while allowing them to 'play' in the other universe.  
I really haven't been very faithful to the actual scene/events of the episode, or the Firefly 'verse itself. So if you're a Firefly fan, try not to hate me too much for this.

Massive, starry-eyed thanks to **lucida** for her endless ramblings on AIM, helping me with my worries over voices. And **isabelquinn** for reading this on the train on her way home from work and sending me squeeful text messages. Even if I'm posting it before she's had a chance to 'beta' it, she's still been supportive, SO SHE GETS A THANK YOU NOTE

Also, I'm so bad at thanking people for their reviews and stuff. THANKS! Seriously, I really appreciate everything. I'm sorry I'm so terrible at responding.

* * *

_Record of interview conducted 0614-RH-2517/Commander R. Harken  
Firefly-class transport held on suspicion of illegal salvage and people smuggling_

* * *

When you have yourself under control, Captain.

Yes. Sorry. Sorry, Commander. Not laughed like that in a while.

I take it by your response that you are _not_ the captain of the ship we intercepted.

Given you asked the question, I take it you ain't yet interviewed my wife.

You've got a large crew on that tiny boat.

Is that a crime?

Merely an observation. Certainly more people than I'd expected to find aboard that old junk bucket.

A good crowd makes for lively dinner conversation.

You're aware that carrying refugees across borders without a valid transport license is illegal, Captain Pike?

Said before, ain't the captain. Co-captain at best. And can't say I ever thought that particular law to be relevant to me and my crew, Commander. Still can't see reason for it being brought up at all, given that I got no refugees on my boat.

We're still checking all the documents we were presented with, of course. But if we should find –

I'd like to wait until you find – or don't find – whatever it is you're expecting to find or not find, Commander. We've all got our documents in order. Only family on my boat.

A large family.

And if that's a crime, you can charge me.

* * *

Could you explain your role on the ship?

Captain. Co-Captain, if my husband insists.

And could you explain, Captain Pike, why your ship was docked alongside an abandoned transport junker?

Curiosity is a curse.

Could it be you were seeking abandoned cargo on a ship that had clearly run into distress? Or could it be you were arranging to carry illegal passengers from this point to another?

Must be tiresome, assuming the worst of people all day long, Commander.

You're evading the question, Captain.

We weren't seeking abandoned cargo, and there ain't no one comin' to meet us. We boarded only to satisfy ourselves the distress had long since passed by.

You and your children?

I'm not sure they fall under the category of 'children' these days, Commander. My youngest is fifteen. Thought would tell they're old enough to decide between a right move and a wrong one without me lookin' over their shoulder.

You and your children – your family – boarded an unfamiliar ship with no knowledge of what you could meet?

We're an adventurous lot.

You often take your children on expeditions that could include unknown dangers?

It ain't ever easy to hold them back. My children can take care of themselves.

* * *

Could you explain your role on the ship, please?

Communications Officer. Mostly.

So it was you who sent the inquisitive beacon to the Transporter?

It was. I knocked and no one answered.

So you decided to let yourselves in?

No answer don't necessarily mean visitors won't be welcomed, Commander. She was adrift. Could have been their communications systems were down. No harm in goin' in for a closer look.

Especially when there might be abandoned cargo aboard?

Can't say that ever occurred to me. I've done nothing wrong. I'm a very moral sort of person, you know. I don't make decisions lightly, and I _certainly_ don't make decisions that are likely to result in illegal activity.

You have a son, don't you? Ten months old?

Can't see what that's got to do with anythin'. I can ask, but I'm fairly certain an illegal salvage operation hadn't occurred to him, either.

Did you take your son aboard the Transporter?

Wasn't sure what I was gonna find over there. Kept him back in our bunk, safe with my husband.

And your husband has no problem staying behind?

If I want to go on somewhere, he don't argue. Much. If he wants to come along, there's always someone else to watch the baby. There's an occasional fight over who gets to stay with him, if I'm honest.

A young baby back in your bunk, and the ship and her crew still dock alongside an unknown Transporter? Not knowing what you'll face?

My son is my first priority, Commander. I'd go so far as to say he's the first priority of everyone aboard. All of our decisions come after careful consideration and discussion. None of us wants to put anyone else on that ship in danger.

I'm surprised you and your husband live on board with the rest of your family. Does it not feel crowded?

Surely does. Wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

Could you explain your role on the ship?

Primary Navigator. _Primary_. Don't listen to Vanessa; she'll fix up so's it sounds like she's responsible. All she does is sit and stare out the damn window.

So you were responsible for the path that led you to the abandoned Transport?

Well, that... that depends. That one might be on Vanessa.

I see. Was there a reason for you drifting out here in the middle of nowhere?

None particularly.

It's a well-known route for people smugglers, you know.

Like hell. Ain't a well-known route for nobody.

Smuggling, whether it's people or other cargo, is illegal.

And I'm well aware of that. And I'm sure, by now, you're aware there's not a damn scrap of illegally-garnered cargo on my family's ship. People or otherwise.

We're still turning it over.

Best you put things back where you found them when you're done. Captain Pike's already havin' a bad day, you wouldn't want to push her none further.

* * *

Could you explain your role on the ship?

Boo-boo fixer.

Excuse me?

Uh – unofficial medic?

Your papers say nothing of this. You've been to medical school?

Not so much. But all blood is red and you want to keep it on the inside, don't you? Ain't so hard to figure the rest out as you go.

Are your services required often?

Depends.

Upon?

Which rocks we visit, what jobs we take on. The route we take. Whether or not we're arrested and delayed.

You're not under arrest.

Could've fooled me, Commander.

Have your services been required on this journey?

Upon occasion. Got a nephew that don't always agree with the food we can get to him, even if he is the most spoiled kid in the 'verse when it comes to what we dish up to him. But that might just be Nicky's cooking. Got vaccinations to worry about, too, for all of us. And I'm forever handin' out placebos for Space Sickness.

Space Sickness?

Take it you've not interviewed Margo yet.

* * *

Your role on the ship?

I go where I'm needed.

Jack of all trades?

And master of none. Hardly enough jobs on that boat for all the people we've got, anyway. Ain't a difficulty if I disappear for a while to tell the kid a few stories, or send a few Comms to people more anchored than me.

So you aren't paid for any services on board the ship?

Are you tellin' me neither of those things can come in useful?

Do they?

Haven't ever had any complaints. Anyway, not sure how explaining my official role on the ship is going to help you decide whether or not my family is guilty of smuggling, or looting, or whatever it is you're charging us with.

Nobody has been charged.

Not for lack of trying.

Can you not see it looks – well, a mite suspicious? Taking such a lonely route through the stars?

But there ain't no lonely people on that boat. The only way we're ever gonna get some peace and quiet is to float the roads less travelled.

Seems like an easier way to do it would be to get your own ship. It's a little strange, isn't it? Such a big family crammed into one small boat, when you're all old enough to be out living your own lives.

No offence, Commander, but if you figure the easier way through life is leavin' people you love most behind, then I figure there ain't much you understand at all.

* * *

Would you care to explain what your role on the ship is?

This'n' that. Most times you can find me helping with communications or navigation. I like to communicate. I like to star-gaze.

Such a small ship, and it needs two communications officers? Two navigators?

More than two, if you ask me. We like to keep things diplomatic on The Good Ship Pike.

Diplomatic.

Yessir.

You are aware of the gravity of the situation, aren't you, Miss?

Is that a question, or a threat?

Now, now. No threats. I'm only ensuring you understand just how serious this matter is.

Oh, yes. Yes, you intercepted a ship you suspected to be carrying people across borders illegally, and you've found nothing. I imagine the situation is getting more serious by the minute.

* * *

You're the cook?

Much as one can be with blocks of protein, fats and flavours. Get fresh food when we can. Haven't landed anywhere with much agricultural produce to spare, lately.

And nor will you find such a place, out here. Did you go aboard the Transporter, when your ship docked?

Had no interest in it. Plenty of others to volunteer for bravery missions.

You think it was brave of them?

Don't you? She's run into some trouble – that much is clear. Ain't many people would stop to make sure everyone had got out okay.

And that's what you were doing? Seeking survivors? What would you have done if you had found anyone?

Sent a Comm for help or assistance. It is, after all, illegal to transport refugees without the proper paperwork. Isn't it, Commander?

* * *

What is your role on board the ship, Miss?

There's very little ventilation in here.

Answer the question, please.

Daughter, sister, aunt. Negotiator. Co-pilot.

Co-pilot? You're a little young, aren't you?

Seventeen, and for the class of ship I'm steering, that's shiny. Helps me feel focused when I've got my hands at the controls.

So you decide where the nose of the ship points?

Hardly. Awful lot of people under that roof to keep happy, Commander. That makes for a lot of discussion, and the Captain has the final say on all of it.

Two Captains, two Communication Officers, two Navigators –

If Vanessa is tryin' to claim Navigation, I ain't sure that's right. She daydreams at the helm while Jordan maps things out. But we have two or three of 'most everything, for sure. People will go where the day takes 'em.

And where were you today?

In the infirmary. Space Sickness.

* * *

Boots off the table.

Sorry. And that's – that's just grease. I ain't stepped in nothin'. I'll just rub that away, just... there.

Did you go aboard the Transporter?

Surely did. If she'd broken down I wanted to see if I could get her goin' again.

You're a mechanic?

Guess so. But got on board and her systems were all still workin'. Still ain't rightly sure what happened. Seems an awful lot of people left in a hurry, though.

No escape pods have been taken.

No. Guess they got on board another ship before we arrived. Can only hope it was willingly, can't we, Commander?

You seem to be projecting a situation, here.

Am I? Just tryin' to figure it out, is all. Figured you might have some answers. Guess it was silly of me to think so, though, seein' as how you're all mixed up, thinkin' it was us who –

Feet off the table!

Sorry! Sorry.

There were signs of a struggle on board. And all of that had occurred before you arrived?

Well, obviously. Ain't much room on our ship to hide nothin'. If we'd taken anyone extra on board you'd have found him in three seconds flat. You should have been able to see that as soon as you'd sorted our papers. And I know you've turned our ship inside out by now – and I swear, Commander, I swear if any of my tools are missin' when I go back to my engine room, you won't be askin' me to get my boots off your _table_.

Are you threatening me?

Just makin' the situation a little clearer for you. Seein' as how you're havin' trouble with it, so far.

Miss Pike –

Lookit, we drifted up on her by chance and she was just rollin' there. I could understand haulin' us aboard for _not_ stopping, but this? We were tryin' to _help_. It'd be a cruel thing sailin' past a boat in distress. We ain't like that. And you can ask me, and everyone else in my family, what jobs we've got on our boat and what roles we all play, but if you ask me, Commander, there's only one job you should be worryin' about bein' done right, and that's your own.

* * *

_Interview terminated CCS 0614-RH-2517/Commander R. Harken  
No charges laid against Capt. D. Pike or her crew_


	42. Skin

**Title/Prompt:** Skin  
**Rating/Warnings:** M  
**Word count:** 1559  
**Summary: **Claudia and Ashley spend a sunny afternoon painting each other.

**Notes:** Thank you to **gloriafan** for helping me develop the idea, and for beta'ing this one for me!

* * *

It was too hot to keep the windows closed, but Claudia made sure the gauzy curtains were pulled across so anyone in the building opposite couldn't see what was going on. At least, not clearly.

"You're such a prude," Ashley murmured, combing her fingers through Claudia's long hair slowly.

Claudia was too relaxed to really argue that much. She watched the curtains move in the breeze, her eyes half-closed as Ashley's fingers stroked across her scalp and down through her hair again.

"I wish your roommates would go out of town more often," Ashley said after a moment.

"Me too," Claudia sighed. She closed her eyes and pushed back against Ashley's hands stirring through her hair again. "I wish I could afford my own place."

"You could move in with me," Ashley said lightly. She gathered Claudia's hair and swept it to the side to start tracing the arch of her spine.

"We fight too much." Claudia brought her knees to her chest and leaned forward, humming quietly as Ashley's fingers slipped over her skin.

"But we could have plenty more afternoons like this," Ashley said, whining a little. Her thumbs brushed the small of Claudia's back. "It's been ages."

Claudia smiled against her knees, imagining the pout on Ashley's face. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

Ashley sniffed. "I hate that. It's so sentimental, and not true. Absence makes the heart forgetful."

Claudia blinked and watched the curtains drift back and forth as the breeze outside lifted again. Street noise blended pleasantly, the slow hush of traffic and occasional voices and laughter floating into the apartment.

"Carey would kill you if she knew you'd left your paints all over the living room floor," Ashley said suddenly.

Claudia flicked her eyes to her easel, propped by the window, the paint still drying slowly on a rough imitation of the view outside. "She won't know. I'll put them away before she gets back."

Ashley shifted, slowly rising to her feet and stretching her arms above her head in full view of the window. "That reminds me," she said, "I've brought you a present."

This stirred Claudia a little. "What is it?" She watched Ashley cross the room to where she'd left her overnight bag, still on the floor by the front door. Sun and shadow moved over her skin, and Claudia watched through her lashes as Ashley bent to retrieve the gift she'd bought.

"Is it candy?" she asked, half kidding, half hopeful.

"No," Ashley retorted. She pulled a box from between the folds of clothing in the bag and held it up so Claudia could see. Body paints.

Claudia smiled.

Ashley knelt down behind her and Claudia stretched out on her stomach, her hair spilling over the floorboards beside her. She folded her arms and rested her chin against the back of her hand. "You're explaining any paint spots on the floor to Carey."

"Just stay still," Ashley said simply. She pulled a few pots of paint from the box and examined them.

Claudia waited quietly. "I feel like we're taking things too slow," she said after a moment, and stretching out in the sun on the warm floor only made it worse. "We've only got another 24 hours together before Carey and Chris come back."

"Not everything has to be frenzied," Ashley said. She ran her fingers down Claudia's spine again. "Don't move."

Claudia tensed just slightly as the cool, wet tip of the paint brush touched the warm skin at the small of her back. Ashley spiralled it slightly, and Claudia tried to keep track of the pattern in her mind as the thin brush trailed over her skin.

"Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?" Ashley asked.

Claudia allowed herself a short laugh before she held her body still again. "Right, because I'm not already disappointing enough to my parents."

Ashley swept the brush down to Claudia's hip and coiled it again, leaving behind a thin spiral of black paint.

"Anyway," Claudia muttered, a little annoyed that Ashley hadn't leapt to her defence, "I don't really like the idea of something so permanent on my skin. My tastes change a lot. I'd never stay happy with something."

"Hm," Ashley said, in a tone that made Claudia think the same statement applied to her.

Claudia closed her eyes, her lids orange against the sunlight falling through the thin curtains. She felt the paintbrush flick once, twice against the low curve of her spine, and she shivered.

"Still," Ashley tutted. "Keep still."

The brush trailed over her skin slowly, carefully. Claudia tried to picture what had been done, but it was difficult – she kept drifting off, the sensation electric and light. It was oddly comforting and familiar.

In her mind, she pictured a swirling pattern of black vines across the breadth of her lower back, weaving flowers and leaves curling around one another and reaching their way up to the nape of her neck.

Ashley let the brush trail down Claudia's side, towards her breast, and Claudia squirmed and let out a soft noise as the sensation crawled over her skin and tightened her nerves.

"Will you let me do you next?" she asked hopefully.

"Okay. But I'm not done yet."

"Are you going to use any colour?"

"No. I like it like this. It looks like wrought iron."

Claudia listened to her own steady breathing as Ashley filled out petals and swirling leaves across her back, the paint cool and wet. Ashley bent close and blew gently, and Claudia felt a thrill course across her skin and settle at the back of her neck.

"It's mostly dry already," Ashley said approvingly, screwing the top back on the pot of paint tightly. "But don't move for a moment. I want it to set properly."

"Maybe next time we should try the pottery scene from _Ghost_," Claudia suggested, watching Ashley out of the corner of her eye. She grinned when she saw her trying to fight a smile.

"I hate that movie," Ashley said.

"I _love_ that movie," Claudia declared. She eased herself up, trying to move in a way that wouldn't mar the swirls of paint across her back. "Your turn."

Ashley settled herself on the floor, but Claudia patted the back of her thigh. "Nope," she said. "Roll over."

Ashley looked over her should in surprise. "Why?"

Claudia twirled a brush in her hands and lifted her eyebrows. "You've got a canvas on your front, don't you?"

Ashley blew a short breath out and rolled over, folding her arms behind her head and gazing up at the ceiling. "What are you going to paint?"

"I don't know," Claudia mused, pulling a pot of green paint from the box and contemplating it. "Something bright."

Ashley made a tutting noise, but smiled.

Sunflowers, Claudia decided. She set the brush purposefully aside and dipped her finger into the paint. She started on Ashley's belly, dabbing the paint quickly, faster and more haphazard than the careful ministrations that had been performed on her own skin. She thought Ashley probably disapproved of her technique a little – or at least longed to correct her somehow – but she didn't say anything, which Claudia was thankful for.

She stopped worrying about it after a few minutes had passed, though. Painting was relaxing, and painting on Ashley's body was definitely more fun than painting on an actual canvas. She trailed green stems down the centre of Ashley's stomach, feeling her muscles tense and twitch under the firm strokes of her fingers. She dipped her thumb into another pot and had bright yellow petals burst and bloom over the low slopes of Ashley's breasts, her skin soft and warm under her touch. She dotted dark concentric circles for the sunflower seeds and grinned as Ashley squirmed at the sensation.

Claudia poked at her ribs, blurring the dark centre of one flower, and Ashley yelped and caught her wrist.

"You're doing that on purpose," she huffed.

"What?" Claudia asked innocently.

"Stop _tickling_," Ashley said, and she tried to glare but it didn't really work.

Claudia grinned and leaned over to kiss her, her dark hair falling down to Ashley's chest, sticking to the wet paint swirled over her skin.

"You're ruining it," Ashley protested softly, but she pulled her closer all the same so Claudia's chest was pressed to hers, the paint smudging between them.

The smell of paint and warm skin was overwhelming and made Claudia's head pound. It was the smell of a hundred afternoons and comfort – she could feel something swell in her chest as she leaned into Ashley's kiss.

Ashley broke off with a soft gasp, yellow paint smudged onto her palm. She transferred it to Claudia's hip and looked up at her helplessly. "I spent so much time on yours," she said. "We're going to ruin it."

Claudia purposefully slid her chest against Ashley's and grinned as the slick paint mixed between them. "We're totally going to get paint on the floor," she said. 


	43. Surprise

**Title/Prompt:** Surprise  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 2066  
**Summary:** Stoneybrook has a rich history, and Claudia and Jamie have a pirate's map...

**Notes:** So I was kind of making fun of some of the events that happen in the BSC books - and then my brain went, "there'd totally be pirates in the Stoneybrook of yore." Combine that with my sudden need for fluff and baby-sitting competency fic and IDK, this is what happened.

I have taken a few liberties with canon - mostly, location, and Jamie Newton's conversational skills. (That didn't actually take much stretching, but you shouldn't come into this expecting anything more realistic!)

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

* * *

"Wow," Jamie breathed, his eyes wide. His fingers curled against the scrubbed wood of the kitchen table. "A real pirate map."

Claudia nodded solemnly. "Leading to real pirate treasure," she said. "Your mom is going to be gone most of the afternoon. Do you think we can find it by the time she gets home?"

Jamie sucked in a quivery breath. "Really?"

"Well, if you want to," Claudia said with a shrug. "We could do something else instead."

"No, I want to find treasure!" Jamie cried. He leaned over the map again, which was spread across the table between them.

Claudia was proud of it – she'd found some heavy parchment paper rolled up and stuffed away on the bottom shelf of an art supply store a few weeks ago. She hadn't been able to decide how to use it, until she'd been booked to baby-sit Jamie Newton for a full afternoon. Jamie was dealing with the idea of a little brother or sister somewhat better, but Claudia had still felt the need to surprise him with something special. So she'd spent an afternoon aging the parchment with tea and painstakingly mapping and inking details for a treasure hunt.

"What does this say?" Jamie asked, pointing to the scrawl across the top.

"Hickory Wood," Claudia whispered, bending close. "It's not too far from here, see? Elm Street finishes at the end of the next block, and there's a trail that leads into the woods. If we follow the map, I'll bet we'll find the treasure."

Jamie gave a little squeak, his fingers hovering just above the map, not quite daring to touch.

"Come on," Claudia said. "Get your coat, and we'll figure out where we need to go first."

* * *

Jamie gripped Claudia's hand and shivered a little as he peered through the trees. "In there?" he asked doubtfully.

Claudia had heard stories that Hickory Wood was haunted. (Most things named after the Hickory family were said to be haunted.) But she'd been in the woods plenty of times – including a quick trip earlier that morning – and the scariest thing that had ever happened to her was when she'd been startled by a squirrel.

"We don't have to, Jamie," Claudia said gently.

The woods did look a little spooky. A few of the trees at the edge had new green buds along their slender branches, but those further in were still bare, sharp lines stark against the cloudy sky, gnarled branches twisting into grotesque shapes.

Jamie tightened his grip on Claudia's hand, looking unsure. "I guess pirates have to hide their treasure in places like this," he whispered. "Scary places."

"It's not that scary," she said lightly. "Anyway, the map says to follow the trail for most of the way. The trail isn't dangerous."

Jamie nodded, and Claudia helped him through the split-rail fence. They walked into the woods together, their feet silent on the damp dirt path through the trees, Claudia resting a short-handled spade over her shoulder. She had entrusted the map to Jamie, and he kept it clenched in his other hand. Now and then he'd tug her to a stop, and they'd consult the map seriously, heads together, breath damp between them in the cold afternoon air.

"Is it going to be buried very deep?" Jamie asked as they marched on again.

"I don't know," Claudia answered. "Maybe."

"Can I help dig it up?"

"Sure."

"What if there's a guard? A pirate guard?"

"I think the map is pretty old, Jamie. I think whoever drew it must have died a long, long time ago. Besides, there are no pirates in Stoneybrook these days."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. I know for a fact that we're the only two people who know about the map."

Jamie swung their clasped hands back and forth between them, lost in thought for a moment. "How come pirates bury their treasure, anyways?"

"To keep it safe. It's probably stolen treasure. I bet the pirate wanted it hide it somewhere until people stopped thinking about it so much. Then he'd go back and dig it up."

"And then he'd be rich."

"Uh-huh."

"How'd you get the map, Claudia?" Jamie asked curiously. "Are you friends with a pirate?"

"I found it when I was researching stuff for a school project," Claudia said. "Hey, are we still headed the right way?"

They stopped to consult the map again. Jamie traced the thin dotted line with his finger, winding its way between black-inked trees. "Are we?" he asked, unsure.

"I think we're close to this tree here," Claudia said, pointing to the first marker – a towering elm tree with wide, twisting branches. It leaned over a fork in the path – one trail winding away to the left, where it would eventually emerge into the field behind the old Stoneybrook Cemetery.

Claudia didn't necessarily believe the stories about haunted Hickory Wood, but she wasn't going to take any chances, either. They followed the map and took the path to the right, away from the cemetery.

The sun had come out and was starting to shine through the wood, striped shadows netted across the ground, which was still wet from earlier rain. Jamie had lost most of his apprehension by now, and was almost bouncing as he kept pace with Claudia.

"What do you think the treasure is?" he asked.

"I don't know. It could be anything. What do you think?"

"I hope it's gold," Jamie said breathlessly. "Do you think the Stoneybrook pirates had gold?"

"Probably," Claudia said. She adjusted the spade over her shoulder. "What would you do with it?" she asked. "If we found some?"

"I'd buy G.I. Joes and candy," Jamie said immediately. "What would you buy?"

"I'd buy candy too," Claudia said, grinning at him.

* * *

Jamie gripped Claudia's hand tightly, eyes wide. "It says X," he whispered loudly.

"Yeah." Claudia had painted a black 'X' on the trunk of the tree that morning. The rain had washed most of the paint away since, but it wasn't completely erased. It had, in fact, loaned a nice, aged look to it.

"I don't see any guards," Jamie whispered.

"Yeah, I think we're safe," Claudia agreed. "Do you want to dig?"

"No," Jamie said, gripping the map tightly. "You do it. I'll keep watch."

"Okay."

Claudia dug slowly, with shallow strokes of the spade. She hadn't buried the tin too deep, but the earth was soft, and it wouldn't take long to find the treasure.

When the spade bit against the top of the tin, Jamie gave a leap of excitement, all fear of pirate guards forgotten. "We found it!" he shouted. "Quick, quick!"

They knelt on the ground together and dusted the rest of the dark dirt away from the top of the old tin Claudia had buried that morning. She'd found it in the charity store downtown – what it had been originally used for, Claudia had no idea, but it had a picture of a sailing ship on the front of it.

"Wow!" Jamie breathed, tracing the outline of the ship with a dirty finger.

"Let's see if we can get it open," Claudia whispered.

She opened it just enough to break the tight seal of the lid – Jamie pulled it open, letting the lid drop back against the upturned earth.

Claudia watched him, grinning. It had been worth getting up early just to see the look of wonder and excitement on his face.

"Pirate gold!" Jamie squealed. He picked up one of the giant, foil-covered chocolate coins Claudia had donated to this particular adventure. "Three of them!"

"And jewels!" Claudia said, catching his enthusiasm despite being in on the surprise all along.

Long coils of leftover beads and gems from art and jewellery projects had been placed into the tin – smooth and shiny, jagged and glinting. Two long feathers – one red and green, another blue and yellow – sat nestled against one another on top of a black square of material painted with a white skull and crossbones.

"Parrot feathers!" Jamie cried. "And a pirate flag!"

"It really is a pirate's treasure!" Claudia said excitedly.

They spent some time going through everything, Jamie cupping the jewels in his hands and spreading the pirate flag over his knees, until the sun shrank behind the clouds again, the sky suddenly threatening rain.

"We'd better go back," Claudia said, and she glanced at her watch. "Your mom will be home soon."

"Okay," Jamie agreed. They tipped everything back into the tin – adding the map to their treasure – and filled the hole in again. Jamie stamped the earth back down firmly and took Claudia's hand again, his palm gritty and dirty, the tin tucked firmly against his chest.

"How much is three pieces of gold, Claudia?" he asked.

"I really don't know," Claudia said, secretly hoping it took Jamie a very long time to discover the gold was actually chocolate.

"I'll ask Daddy," Jamie decided. "He'll know."

They made it back to the house just before the sky opened again and rain poured down. Claudia dusted off the tin as best as she could, and then took Jamie upstairs to wash his hands. They heard the front door open and close just as they were toweling their hands dry.

"Hello!" Mrs Newton called.

"Mommy!" Jamie cried. He took off, Claudia calling a reminder after him not to run down the stairs. She watched him sit and slide hurriedly down the stairs, hands bracing each bump.

Mrs Newton laughed. "You're in a hurry."

"We found pirate treasure!" Jamie cried, flinging himself at her and wrapping his arms around her legs.

Claudia explained their adventure as Jamie pried the tin open and thrust it up into his mother's hands.

"Goodness me," Mrs Newton said, smiling. "Look at this!"

"We got kind of dirty," Claudia added guiltily, noticing the dark patches of dirt on Jamie's knees.

Mrs Newton laughed. "Don't worry about it, Claudia." She smiled down at Jamie. "So you've had a great day with Claudia?"

"The best day," Jamie confirmed, pulling the feathers out of the tin again and running them through his fingers. "How much is pirate gold, Mommy?"

"Hm," Mrs Newton said thoughtfully. She smiled again as she unfolded the pirate flag. "I'll have to check with Daddy, but I think it will be enough for a trip to the zoo on Saturday."

Jamie's face lit up like Christmas. "Oh _boy_!" he cried.

Mrs Newton laughed. "Honey, why don't you take the treasure into the living room. We'll take a closer look in a moment. Say goodbye and thank you to Claudia."

"Bye!" Jamie said, piling everything back into the tin again. "Thanks for baby-sitting me, Claudia."

"You're welcome, Jamie," Claudia said with a smile. "I had a lot of fun today."

"Me too," Jamie said. "If you find any other pirate maps, will you tell me?"

"You'll be the first one I tell, I promise," Claudia said seriously.

Jamie gave her a hug before he ran into the living room, the treasure rattling in his hands.

"Thank you, Claudia," Mrs Newton said with a smile. She reached for her purse. "Jamie's been a little withdrawn lately, what with the baby coming." She patted her stomach. "It's nice to see him acting like his old self again."

"Today was fun," Claudia answered. She lowered her voice, just in case Jamie was listening. "Making the map and the treasure was fun anyway, but I'm glad Jamie enjoyed it."

"Me too," Mrs Newton said. "And I'll second his request – if you ever find another map, I hope you'll share it with him."

"Definitely," Claudia promised with a grin. "Maybe next time we'll find an old genie lamp."


	44. Sigh

**Title/Prompt:** Sigh  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 700  
**Summary:** Seven baby-sitters. Seven deadly sins.

**Notes:** I... I don't even know. I had fun with this, though! I've really not made the seven sins ~deadly. They're mostly amusing, I think. I just wanted to assign each attribute/sin to each baby-sitter. Some of them were really easy and spoke for themselves, others were harder, and I'm not sure I'll ever be happy with a couple of the last choices I had to make. They're not in any particular order.  
Also, I used Open Office for the word counts. According to that program, each drabble is 100 words, but I can't promise it'll read that way in every program (or to every eye). :)  
The prompt 'sigh' is assigned to the first drabble; it doesn't have much else to do with the others.**  
**

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

* * *

**Sloth**

She's supposed to be up. Shower, dressed, breakfast; all supposed to be done.

She rolls over to look to the window, the curtains parted an inch or two to show a white sky, snow falling silently.

_I should get up_, she thinks, imagining the growing chaos of the Christmas sales.

There's a sigh at the end of her bed; a heavy weight on the comforter over her feet. Tigger stretches and curls himself again, purring quietly.

Mary Anne edges one foot under his rumbling belly and lets out a sigh of her own as her toes warm.

_Another five minutes_.

* * *

**Wrath**

Dawn looks nervously over her shoulder as there's a creak on the stairs. She holds her breath, listening for tell-tale footsteps.

_Stupid farmhouse_, she thinks. _Stupid ghosts_.

She waits a bit longer, just to be sure. It's not unlike Jeff to sneak up and leap out at the last second to make her jump.

She grits her teeth in renewed determination and pulls the top drawer open; carefully opens the pouch of itching powder and scatters it through Jeff's clothes.

She smirks as she slides the drawer closed again.

_Won't be so easy to sneak up on me now, Jeffrey._

* * *

**Gluttony**

Janine is tutting over punctuation errors and spelling mistakes as she scans her menu, but Claudia tunes her out as she flips to the page of desserts.

Lemon curd tart, tiramisu, chocolate cake with dark ganache, parfait, home-made vanilla bean panna cotta and summer berries...

"Claudia?" Janine is watching her critically, eyebrow raised.

"Um, I haven't decided yet." Slowly, she turns back to the mains, but it doesn't help with hastening her decision.

Slow-roasted pork belly with caramelised onions, pepper-steak stir fry with buttered greens, chicken cordon bleu, creamy mushroom carbonara...

_This is going to take some time_.

* * *

**Envy**

Mallory has thrown her bedsheets back and is at the window, chin propped in her hand as she looks out over the shadowy yard.

It's not late – not even ten o'clock. If she were thirteen she could still be out _baby-sitting_ right now. She knows that's where Stacey is; it's why her bedroom is still dark. Because Mrs McGill trusts Stacey and treats her like an adult.

Mallory huffs so loudly Vanessa rolls over in her sleep.

The moment Mallory turns thirteen, she's going to dye her hair, buy a whole new wardrobe, and insist upon a later curfew.

* * *

**Greed**

There has to be grace in absolutely everything, _everything_, even curtain calls and curtseys and the way she embraces the heavy bouquets of flowers after every performance.

This is what they watch – not just the dancing, but the little things, and if Jessi wants more of it (and she does), she can't stop performing until she's alone.

The little things are what keep her leaps and bounds, _tour jetés_ and _pirouettes_ in front of the others. She will step on every single one of them to stay ahead, to be Swanilda, Giselle, Odette, Nikiya.

She will not have less.

* * *

**Pride**

"The Bashers have older kids on their team, but the Krushers were here first," Kristy says, kicking the fridge door closed, the milk balanced in the crook of her arm as she juggles a bowl and a box of Cheerios. "Besides, my baby-sitting experience with kids gives us an edge the Bashers just don't have."

"Kristy, the milk," Sam says irritably, holding his hand out.

"Have you _seen_ Jackie Rodowsky's swing lately?" Kristy clatters her bowl onto the counter. "My direction is totally paying off."

"The _milk_," Sam groans, ignoring her. "I'm _hungry_."

* * *

**Lust**

Stacey angles the compact mirror she keeps in her purse, pressing her lips together to ensure even distribution of her favourite pink gloss.

Any minute now, basketball practice is going to finish. The team will emerge from the school gym red-faced and still damp from the showers.

A shiver goes up her spine as she snaps her compact closed.

RJ Blaser, Marty Bukowski, Malik Jaffrey, Robert Brewster...

She keeps a hawk eye on the gym doors. The moment they fly open, the boys jostling out into the parking lot, Stacey fluffs her hair and starts walking, timing it just so.


	45. Blood

**Title/Prompt:** Blood  
**Rating/Warnings:** PG/mild-medium violence  
**Word count:** 3842  
**Summary:** Supernatural AU: Vanessa's soaked through by the time she gets home, but it don't make the bragging rights less sweet. "Killed the werewolf," she says casually, hanging her coat and her bow by the door.

**Notes:** Written for _meroure_ for fandom_stocking 2013! I wrote quite a few BSC fics for f_s and they will all be uploaded over the next week or so. **  
**

In my mind, Vanessa is 17 or 18 in this fic, but it's not an important detail.

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn and lucida!

* * *

_They lived in a log cabin in woods yonder, the walls stuffed with salt and herbs. The children all grew up on nightmare stories and the sound of knives sharpened by firelight._

_Folks say the odds were against them, so many young and fragile things in a world full of shadows, but they all lived to be old. Every single one of 'em._

* * *

It's raining hard, but there's still a full moon behind those low clouds, and it don't matter what the legends say – the dark won't weaken it.

Vanessa fits an arrow to her bow silently, slides her shoulders around the trunk of the tree, the rain spilling through the leaves above. The creature is still too far away for her to shoot with any certainty of death, especially in such poor light.

She leans the heel of her boot down on a nearby twig. When the beast runs at her, teeth gnashing in the dark, she puts her silver-tipped arrow through its chest. When it falls to the ground it's nothing more than a man again.

She drags him beneath the dry wall of a cliff by the river and burns his body on a bed of salt and St. John's Wort.

* * *

She's soaked through by the time she gets home, but it don't make the bragging rights less sweet. "Killed the werewolf," she says casually, hanging her coat and her bow by the door.

"Bullshit," Adam says. "There's no moon."

She smirks at him and lets Mom fuss around her with blankets and a hot bowl of stew.

"Who was it?" Byron asks. He's sprawled in front of the fire, watching Claire twirl a knife in her hand.

"Don't know. Didn't recognise him."

She sits on the floor beside Nicky's legs. He looks half-asleep and there's a bright stripe from a tree branch or something high on his cheek. "What happened to you?" she asks.

"Caught a beech tree in the face when Mallory ran away from something up near White Pine."

"Didn't see you offering to stay back and fight," Mallory mutters. "And it wouldn't have caught you in the face if you hadn't run so close after me."

"What was it?" Vanessa swallows a hot mouthful of stew.

"Dad says it sounds like a Wendigo."

"No way you could outrun a Wendigo," Claire snorted. "Your ass is slow as molasses."

"Fuck you," Nicky says.

"Language," Mom says. She's sitting at the table with Dad, stuffing leather pouches with herbs, salt and charcoal.

Vanessa pokes at a grisly lump at the bottom of her bowl. "Dad, what the hell is in this stew?"

"Don't ask," Dad murmurs, not looking up.

"Why didn't you kill it?" Jordan asks.

"We were out looking for a werewolf, not a Wendigo," Nicky says indignantly. "And you tell me how we're supposed to burn anything in this rain."

"How'd _you_ find the werewolf?" Jordan turns to Vanessa.

She taps her temple and swallows the last of her stew. "Brains."

Jordan rolls his eyes and nudges Adam. "Want to go look for the Wendigo tomorrow?"

"We should all go," Margo says.

"No thanks," Jordan tells her. "We don't need you carelessly falling down a mine shaft or nothin' when we're trying to shoot stuff."

"That happened _one time_!" Margo bellows.

"If you're going to fight, you can go to bed," Mom says, pointing her pestle at Jordan.

Vanessa wriggles back against the cushions behind her and they talk about werewolf tracks and Wendigos until the fire has burned low.

* * *

The rain has let up by morning, though the sky is still low and dark. Vanessa's coat is damp across her shoulders, but she soon forgets the chill as she follows her brothers and sisters up the trail to White Pine.

"Remember that, um, Shadow that dragged Dad off into the woods that time," Claire says breathlessly, "and we tracked it to that cave with all the Bluecaps in it? D'you think maybe they'd know where the Wendigo is?"

"We'll send Margo in to ask them," Adam says. "She's BFFs with all the underground mining spooks, right, Margo?"

"I'll shank you," Margo threatens.

Nicky halts them all and hefts the bag slung across his back. "It was here somewhere," he says.

"Yeah, I thought I recognised a patch of your face on that tree a ways back," Jordan says.

Claire snorts.

"Up there," Mallory says, nodding.

Vanessa follows the motion and sees the clean, white shavings of deep claw marks in the trees ahead.

She feels a shiver go down her spine and her fingertips tighten and spark. For a moment she feels very fragile in her skin, thin tissue and blood against something much stronger, much darker. She slides an arrow from the quiver over her back and runs her thumb gently over the fletching.

"Anyone hear of someone from town goin' missing?" Byron asks, resting the heel of his hand against the knife on his belt.

"Nope," Nicky says, "but it didn't chase us, so it can't be too hungry. Maybe it's taken someone but the story ain't out yet."

"Mom says she's heard they don't like the rain," Margo says quietly. "Maybe you got lucky."

Jordan smirks and flexes his arm. "Or it was waitin' for someone who looked a little more satisfying, meat wise."

Byron shoves him with a grin, and they all troop on, footsteps almost silent on the damp forest trail.

Vanessa jumps when Claire's thin fingers clasp her arm through the thick wool of her coat. "Smell that," she whispers, feet slowing in the black dirt, her face pale.

Vanessa lifts her nose to the clean air of the wood and almost retches when the smell of rotting flesh and decay sinks into her lungs.

Claire's already got knives in her hands, looking back down the trail from where they came; Vanessa notches her arrow, the tip soaked with wolfsbane. It won't drop a Wendigo, but it'll sting like a son-of-a-bitch and might slow it down some. It's their best chance of buying an extra second or so to light the sucker up.

The others have all noticed it too. Knives and arrows glint and lift in the morning gloom.

"Smells like one of Byron's," Adam whispers. Jordan's shoulders shake with laughter for a moment, but then there's a wail that rips its way down the mountain, shifting the leaves so the wood seems to curl in on itself.

Vanessa can feel the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck all stand on end. Mallory circles, her back to Byron's. "Claire, light your torches."

Claire opens her mouth to argue, but shuts it again and shrugs her bag from her shoulders. Vanessa gives her a little smile. Too many hunters have bought themselves a one-way ticket because they were arguing when they were supposed to be killing.

Nicky lights four torches with his knife and a nodule of flint, and he and Claire take positions either side of the trail, torches in hand, muscles tense and tight.

"How many of us d'you think it'll want to take down?" Nicky asks.

"Don't worry, Nick," Byron whispers. "You're hardly a bite. It'll go Mallory first."

"You're bigger than me, lunkhead," Mallory answers.

The wail arcs through the air again. Vanessa wants to curl over and cover her ears with her hands. She can't tell where it's coming from, but the smell is stronger now, like winter rot and forgotten meat.

"There!" Adam fires an arrow off into the woods and it disappears between the trees. Vanessa thinks she sees something grey, a shape all sharp and long, but it moves too fast for her eyes to follow and she loses it somewhere in the leaves.

Claire shrieks and Vanessa whirls around and shoots almost blindly. Another arrow fires a split second later and further to the right – Jordan, and this time the creature screams, angry and loud.

"I got it," Jordan says, notching another arrow. "Where'd it go?"

A tree branch cracks overhead and falls to the ground. They all take a step towards one another, shrinking their circle, back to back, eyes trained on the woods around them.

Drizzle mists down through the trees, beading lightly on hair and clothing. Everything is quiet – no birds, no wind. Vanessa's muscles tremble; she dares not relax her stance.

The smell crawls over her skin and down her throat and she wants to spit. She almost shoots the gnarled trunk of a shadowed tree, convinced a face is staring back at her, grotesque lips curled around blood-stained teeth. She blinks and it's gone; just a tree again, and she won't ever know if it was a trick of the light or something worse.

Something bounces from a branch overhead, leaves shaking. They don't hear where it lands, just the launch of it, and it's like the climax is hanging in the air, the creature suspended above them, invisible.

Mallory fires an arrow into the woods, tuts when she misses. "Damn thing moves out of range soon as you fire," she says. "Gotta coax it in."

"You wanna be the bait, Margo?" Adam asks.

"Not with you covering me," she says. But she sheaths her knife again and takes a step back into the middle of their circle. "Got a plan?"

"No one's baitin' it," Vanessa says quietly. "It can run and kill us all in a heartbeat. It's circling. It'll come."

"Soooo comforting," Jordan says. "Thanks, Vanessa."

They know she's right, though. No point coaxing it in by doing something foolish. It chose to let 'em know it was there. It'll come.

Vanessa wonders just how patient the thing is. Maybe it'll get tired of circling. Maybe it'll rush at 'em, risking their torches to rip its claws through their soft skin. She wonders if the wolfsbane on Jordan's arrowhead is hurting it any.

A new noise starts from deep in the trees, off in the distance where the rain blurs everything together – like wind roaring through a valley, whistling and funnelling through rock and wood, but nothing is moving; the leaves aren't so much as quivering. The roar gets louder and louder until Vanessa can't hear anything else, it's filling her head and squeezing the air from her lungs.

It stops as suddenly as it started, and the only noise is the rain dripping down onto the dark dirt and leaf litter on the forest floor.

Vanessa catches movement out of the corner of her eye, but it's only Byron – he flings his knife and there's a new scream from the forest like a wounded animal, and more branches snap and creak overhead as the thing flees to the safety of the treetops.

"Got it," Byron says.

"Bet you didn't," Adam says. "Hard enough to hit with an arrow. No way you can move fast enough to hit it with a damn knife."

"I got it," Byron says confidently, quietly. "It wasn't watchin' me."

Vanessa feels ice crawl down her spine as she considers Byron's words and wonders which one of them the creature was focused on; which one of them it's gonna pick off first.

She knows it's only keeping its distance because of the smell and flicker of fire.

There's a rustling noise in the nearest tree, leaves spinning through the drizzle. Vanessa looks up and sees it, curled in the arms of two branches, hollow black sockets staring down at her, skin sagging loosely over sharp bones. She can see the snapped shaft of Jordan's arrow in its shoulder.

She keeps her eyes on it. It stares back at her – she thinks it's staring at her, but she and her siblings have formed a tight circle and the thing don't have eyes, so far as she can tell, so she can't be sure.

She raises her arrow slowly, everything already pulled taut, muscles aching. She expels a slow breath. The beast lowers its head slowly, staring back, and stretches one gnarled hand towards her, the skin of its fingers black and loose, its long claws flexing. Points at her, flesh sagging around its mouth to reveal sticky teeth, the stench in the air rising and rising.

She counts slowly, not moving.

_One two, one two_

_And through and through_

_the vorpal blade_

_went snicker-snack_

She releases the arrow, blinks, and the thing is gone, Vanessa's arrow quivering in the trunk of the tree.

* * *

Behind the cloud, the sun has risen high, and the Wendigo is still hovering just out of reach. Vanessa's sunk one arrow into it and Mallory hit it with the wrong end of a knife.

"Won't ever live that one down," Adam tells her. "Bet you bruised him good."

"At least I hit it," Mallory says, smirking at him. "How many arrows have you wasted this morning?"

The thing has slowed down a lot. Vanessa can't tell if it's the wolfsbane or because it's trying to think of a way to snatch one of them up without coming too close to the torches, and it's surveying their weak points. It's still avoiding most of what they throw at it, and they've held off a bit, not willing to waste so many arrows on the damp air of the forest.

Having it in clean sight so often means none of them have become complacent. Even Claire is still ready to jump at the slightest noise, her eyes sharp, fingers wrapped tightly around the torches in her hands.

Low chuckling rolls through the forest like fog, echoing over and over. Vanessa can feel it like salt in her joints, all wrong, aching. Whispers of a language she don't know, long forgotten and centuries past, and it laughs again and drags its feet as it paces between the trees, blank eyes turned towards them.

"Fuck this," Nicky says, and he dips his torch and scorches the end of Adam's arrow. "Shoot it."

The arrow won't stay lit, but it smokes some, blackened at the end, and Adam raises his bow and shoots almost lazily, like he don't expect to hit it.

It screams loud enough to shake the trees, and it staggers and drags its claws through the trunk of an oak like soft mud, snapping the arrow off at the shaft. It stands in front of them and raises itself, bellowing, the leaves in the trees shaking and quivering, pooled rain slipping to the ground. Its limbs unfold, bones straightening and cracking, mouth yawning open.

They shoot like fools, all at once, and it's gone by the time their arrows make it that far. Stomach in her throat, Vanessa slots another arrow and spins on her heel, but it's too late – it's come around and the smell hits her in the face as it raises its arm and sweeps its claws down across Adam's shoulder, grasping at his flesh and dragging him backwards.

It's sick though, can't move that fast again, and Claire drops one torch and flings the other with both hands, hitting it in the chest the same moment Adam falls to the ground, his blood soaking the dirt.

It catches like paper, aged skin curling and floating in the heat, its voice bubbling away like a shallow stream as it sinks into a pile of ash, one arm still stretched towards them, clawed fingers grasping at the air.

Vanessa drops to her knees beside Adam and starts to cut away his shirt with a blade she cleans with dandelion and garlic. "Claire, go home and get Mom, tell her to bring her kit," she says. "Go now."

Claire's footsteps beat away in the dirt; Vanessa hears her fall once. Someone follows her, pulls her up and runs with her.

"Adam..." Jordan's grasping Adam's hair, tilting his head back, but his eyes are closed, his face waxy. The wound is angry and deep, blood pooling on the ground, and it don't look right; too dark, too thick.

Byron tries to elbow Vanessa away. She slaps his hand and shrugs out of her coat. "Who's got what?" she asks, and their fingers tremble as they pull leather pouches from pockets and boots, loosening strings and unfolding packets of herbs and healing.

"Nicky, use the torches to get a fire started," Mallory says. "Don't use the one that killed the Wendigo."

Vanessa probes at the wound on Adam's shoulder. It's sticky and cold, his skin burned and scarred at the edges.

"Wake him up," Jordan pleads softly, his fingers still threaded in Adam's hair.

"Not yet," Vanessa says. "We don't need him kickin' about and making this harder than it already is. Someone run down the river and bring up some water."

"I'll go," Mallory says, scrambling to her feet.

It starts to rain again. The fire smokes and flutters in the damp, and Nicky looks pale, his eyes darting glances at Adam as Vanessa instructs him on what to add to the flames. She leans on Adam's shoulder and tries not to think about how cold and dark his blood is as it seeps between her fingers.

* * *

"We're getting less and less identical as we get older, thanks to shit like this," Jordan says breathlessly, looking down at Adam. "It's like you don't even care."

"You're definitely the ugly one, now," Byron adds. "Knocked Jordan outta first place."

Adam laughs weakly. "Like hell."

Vanessa rolls her eyes, her fingers aching as she keeps a tight grip on the rough stirrup of the stretcher they rigged together from saplings and leather. Every step is taken carefully, but Adam's face is still white with pain, and she can see the marks he's left on Byron's hand as he clenches hold of him.

Mom's pasted something that smells foul and familiar all over Adam's shoulder, and her mouth is pressed in a thin line as she marches beside the stretcher, rifling through the leather bag she keeps her medicines in.

Vanessa's pretty sure they're all going to be subjected to her You Have To Be More Careful lecture later.

The house is warm and quiet when they all troop in out of the rain. Adam's grip on Byron's hand has slackened and Vanessa can see his teeth chattering when they lower the stretcher down in front of the fire.

Claire's already waiting, face tear-streaked. She's gathered blankets, got tea steeping in the coals. "Are you gonna live?" she asks, leaning over to inspect Adam closely.

Adam grunts through clenched teeth.

Claire's eyes start to shine a little too bright, and Mallory puts an arm around her shoulder. "He's been a smart ass the whole way home," she says comfortingly. "About how slow we were and how Nicky and Margo had to keep swappin' over carrying him because they're weaklings."

"Scrawny arms," Adam mutters.

Claire gives him a watery smile and Mallory tugs at her and leads her away to the back of the house. Vanessa rolls up her sleeves and kneels beside her mother.

Jordan and Byron refuse to be shifted. They stand by the fire and watch, shoulder to shoulder, their arms folded across their chests, wearing matching frowns.

Vanessa watches closely as Mom mixes pastes and salves in cedar bowls. The smells are strong and comforting, bringing up memories of storms and battle wounds, salamander burns and scars from anansi web.

Vanessa looks at the scars on Mom's arms in the glow of the fire, runs her fingers over her own knitted skin and wonders how many times a person can be sealed back together before their luck runs out.

* * *

Dad cooks when the sun sinks low in the sky, and the rich smell of meat slowly overtakes the bitterness of burning herbs.

Vanessa washes up tiredly, scrubbing mud and blood from beneath her nails and pulling leaf litter from her hair. She's got no appetite but she eats anyway, chewing and swallowing mechanically as night falls and presses against the windows of the little house.

"I was mean to him," Margo whispers guiltily, looking up at Vanessa with worried eyes, dark in the firelight. "I never meant it."

Vanessa combs Margo's hair out, smoothing the tangled strands with her fingers and murmuring little comforts. "Don't feel too sorry for him," she whispers. "He'll take advantage of any sorrow soon as he's up."

By the fire, Mom and Dad sit and talk quietly, their eyes on Adam. Byron and Jordan lean tiredly on one another, stomachs still empty, forest mud still splashed on their boots.

* * *

"Where're Jordan and Byron?"

"Mom sent 'em out for supplies." Vanessa sinks onto the side of Adam's bed. His fever took two days to break, shook him from head to toe and drenched him through. The house has got the lingering tang of sickness and sweat in the air, and Claire has been burning handfuls of sage to try and get rid of it.

Nicky won't let her near the fire anymore.

Adam shifts weakly beneath his blankets, still tired, his eyes still glazed.

"Hungry?" Vanessa asks. "Mom's been distracting herself by cooking whatever's in sight, whether it's edible or not." She lifts a bowl of broth in her hands, but Adam shakes his head, eyes closed again.

"You look better," she adds after a moment. "Got less of that Wendigo skin shade goin' on."

"Always was the most handsome," Adam mumbles.

Vanessa sets the broth aside. "I'm meant to change your dressings," she says. "You up for it?"

He grunts.

The wound has closed, but it'll leave a scar. She thinks he'll still have good use of his shoulder – maybe it won't make no difference at all – but it looks ugly as hell. She traces the salve in arcs and patterns over the skin, drawing symbols he'd roll his eyes at if he had the energy.

As it is, he rouses when she sets the salve aside again.

"Don't cast no spells," he says. "Witch."

"Ain't like it'll hurt," Vanessa shoots back at him, perhaps a little too defensively. She's the only one in the family so taken by spells – except for maybe Mallory, or her mother. Everyone says they're outdated, but Vanessa likes the way the words roll off her tongue. There's a comfort and a prayer in spellwork, something deep and ancient, and she'll stick by it long as she lives.

"You'll turn me into a toad," Adam moans.

"Not like you've got far to go," she says, but she settles beside him quietly and doesn't prod anymore.

Eventually, Adam's breathing evens out again, and the lines in his face fade away. Vanessa pulls the blanket a little higher on his chest and whispers a few faint little words, just for the sake of it, and just to settle herself.

Adam sighs and shifts his head against the pillow. "I heard that."

Vanessa smirks and watches him fall asleep.

* * *

_They say they lived in those woods years longer than any man ought to live. They were brought up on magic and smoke, bound together, blood and soul._

_Folks say them Pikes feared nothing in that forest._


	46. Dress

**Title/Prompt:** Dress  
**Rating/Warnings:** M | Implied sex, adult situations  
**Word count:** 3317  
**Summary:** Sam steps in when Stacey finds herself without a prom date.

**Notes:** Another fic created from fevered table-gazing and the deadline pressure of _fandom_stocking_. I knew I wanted to write a BSC fic for _luxken27_ and a _lot_ of ideas went through my head.

And then a very bad math joke went through my head, and Sam and Stacey stepped in to save me.

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

**Edit:** Sorry, FFN ate my line breaks! They've since been added back in.

* * *

41 hours before prom, Stacey found herself dumped. She curled up in bed and cried into her pillow, the comforter pulled up over her head.

"He said I was coming on too strong," she sobbed on the phone to Claudia. "We've been dating for almost six months, and then two days before prom, he decides I'm moving too fast for him."

Claudia was furious and sympathetic. "You can come with me and Alan," she said. "You don't need that asshole."

"I really don't want to go anymore," Stacey croaked. "What if he's there with another date?"

"Oh, Stace," Claudia said sympathetically. "It'll be okay. We'll get dressed up, and you and me will dance to all the best bad songs, and we'll hate Cokie Mason's dress even if she looks amazing, and we'll rip Taryn apart if he dares show his face."

Stacey sniffed. "I really don't feel like it, Claud," she said. "I'm sorry."

Claudia paused, and then said, softly, "Will you still come over and help me get ready?"

Stacey pulled her comforter over her head again and closed her eyes, not wanting to go anywhere. "Of course I will."

* * *

Claudia ran a critical eye over Stacey, taking in her blotchy skin, her torn jeans, and her frizzy hair. "I have to call Kristy," she said suddenly.

"Why?" Stacey asked. She dropped onto Claudia's bed and stared up at the ceiling.

Claudia didn't answer. She picked up her phone and dialled, thrumming the cord between her fingers impatiently as she waited for someone to pick up. "It's me," she said. "Listen... I need to borrow your red... your red... um... Yes."

Stacey tuned out as she thought about whether or not Taryn would take another date to the prom. Maybe he had dumped her because he had feelings for someone else.

Her stomach clenched and she rolled over, curling into a ball on Claudia's bed.

"Kristy, I don't have time to remember the code!" Claudia barked into the phone. "Just remember it's red, okay? Bright, bright red." She hung up and clapped her hands together in the most Kristy-like way Stacey had ever seen. "Okay," she said. "I need you to help me get ready."

* * *

"You have plenty of time," Stacey said, looking at the clock.

Claudia was fidgety and nervous. She sat in front of her mirror, her hair spilling down between her shoulder blades in loose curls, held in place with a handmade barrette covered in chunky gemstones. She glanced up from sorting through her box of nail polish. "What's that, um, nail polish you have that I really liked last time I was over?" she asked suddenly. "The red one?"

Stacey lifted her head. "Red a Good Book?"

Claudia snorted and then looked at Stacey's reflection in the mirror. "Yeah. Do you think I could borrow it for tonight?"

"Sure. Want me to call Mom and ask if she can bring it over?"

"Could you go?" Claudia asked breathlessly. "Don't tell your mom, but I totally don't trust her to bring the right one."

Stacey laughed and rolled off the bed. "Okay. I'll be back in twenty minutes. Do you need anything else?"

"No. Kristy's bringing everything else."

"Kristy?" Stacey asked skeptically. "You don't trust my mom, but you trust _Kristy_ to bring you the correct prom supplies?"

Claudia closed the lid on her nail polishes with a snap, and grinned. "She's got it under control."

Stacey glanced at her watch. "Get dressed," she said. "I'll do your nails for you when I get back, and then it'll almost be time for you to go."

* * *

Stacey pulled the bottle of Claudia's desired nail polish from the top drawer of her dressing table and gave it a quick shake and a few hard taps against her palm. It was a bright, glossy red – a close match to the colour of Claudia's dress, but not perfectly so. She frowned, and pulled out another shade (Velvet Lounge), as well as a contrasting colour called Heels of Steel.

"That'll do," she muttered, throwing all three bottles into her purse. She stopped on the way out of her bedroom – her prom dress was hanging on the back of her closet door, catching the late sunlight coming through the window.

She brushed her fingers over the soft cream-coloured material, her heart sinking again. She felt her eyes sting as she thought about how unfair it was. She'd searched everywhere for the perfect dress, and she'd pictured herself walking into prom on Taryn's arm, dancing with her arms around his shoulders, his palms at the small of her back...

The doorbell rang, and she swallowed sharply and took a few deep breaths.

"Stacey!" her mother called from downstairs. "It's for you!"

Stacey's heart skipped a beat. What if Taryn had changed his mind? Worse, what if it had been some sick _joke_ he and his idiot friends had played on her? If she went downstairs, and he was standing there expecting her to be ready...

She swiped a few more tears away on the back of her hand, feeling angry and bitter. If he was standing there, she was going to shove everything back in his face and dump _him_.

She went downstairs ready for an argument.

It wasn't Taryn. It was Sam Thomas, dressed in a dark tuxedo and flirting with Stacey's mother at the bottom of the stairs.

"So if I can't talk her into it, you've got a little black dress, right, Maureen?"

"I don't think you'll need to worry about that, Sam," Stacey's mom said, raising her eyebrow. She caught sight of Stacey and grinned, waving her closer. "Come on down here, honey."

Stacey approached Sam almost reluctantly as Maureen beamed at them both and then made herself scarce, disappearing into the kitchen where she started loading the dishwasher with an exuberance Stacey had never seen or heard before.

"What are you doing here?" Stacey asked.

"Following orders," Sam said honestly, giving her a grin. "You need a date?"

Stacey shrugged and tucked her hair behind her ears. "I'm not going," she said. "My boyfriend broke up with me. I just – I don't feel like it." She gave him a small, apologetic smile. "Thanks anyway, Sam."

"Listen," Sam said quietly, tilting his head to look down at her. "We don't have to stay long, okay? We'll walk in, and you'll be a total knockout and you'll show your idiot ex-boyfriend exactly what he's missing out on, and then I can bring you home again. Twenty minutes, tops."

Stacey blinked and bit her lip, looking up at him.

He leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Are you telling me you're going to deny your mother the chance to photograph her only child on prom night?" he asked. "She's grounded you for less than that."

Stacey smiled, taking hold of his hands and shaking her head. "Sam..." She tried to draw up as much conviction as she could for an excuse which was already flimsy at best. "I have to take some stuff over to Claudia's."

"I hate to break it to you, McGill," Sam said, "but I think that might have been a ruse."

Stacey opened her mouth to protest, and then remembered Claudia's phone call to Kristy: _I don't have time to remember the code._

"Oh my god," she muttered.

Sam laughed and leaned in to brush his lips over her temple. "You're not gonna turn me down, are you?" he asked. "It's Saturday night, Stace, and I'd much rather take a pretty girl to her prom than sit at home with my little brother and explain why his home-made helicopter is never going to fly. FYI, the answer is physics."

She laughed, and it was a genuine laugh that took no effort. She sighed and took a step back, Sam's fingers trailing against her palms. "Give me twenty minutes," she said.

"Can I use your phone?" Sam asked. "I'm supposed to call Claudia's house and confirm the Eagle has landed."

* * *

"You look beautiful, honey."

Stacey smiled at her mother. "Thanks."

Maureen rested her chin on the top of Stacey's head and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. "For what it's worth," she said, "I'm glad you're going to prom with Sam."

Stacey gave a small nod and drew a deep breath, checking her makeup one last time. "Me too," she said.

Maureen stepped back and allowed Stacey to stand up, straightening the soft waves of her dress under her palm. "Have you got your insulin?" she asked. "Checked your blood sugar?"

"Yes, Mom," Stacey said patiently.

Maureen brushed some imaginary lint from the clinging bodice of Stacey's dress. "And, Stacey," she said, her voice a little too high and light to be natural, "if you and Sam decide to participate in any after-prom activities, please be careful. I mean, have fun. And be careful."

"_Mom_," Stacey said, mortified. "You're not really giving me a safe sex talk, are you?"

Maureen raised her eyebrow. "I'm just saying if you have to fit anything else into that little clutch purse, you'd better do it now."

Stacey felt her face turning red. She blinked at her mother, who only gave her a knowing look in return.

"Fine," Stacey said, her voice cracking despite her best efforts to sound cool. She pulled open the drawer of her night stand and held up three foil-wrapped condoms, the packaging still linked.

Maureen grinned and turned to leave. "If you could let Sam know I asked you to take those, I'd appreciate it."

"Yeah, right," Stacey said, following her. "That'll get him in the mood."

* * *

"If you look at my cleavage one more time, I'll drop you," Kristy snarled at Alan.

"I'm not looking at your cleavage, I'm looking at the lack of it," Alan retorted.

Kristy raised her fist and Claudia grabbed her arm. "Come and get some punch," she said, dragging her away. She shot a look at Alan over her shoulder which clearly said she was going to kill him if he didn't start behaving himself.

Alan made a big show of straightening his jacket. "I'm gonna circle the room," he said. "Make myself known, socially."

"Good idea," Pete said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm sure nobody here knows who you are."

Alan disappeared into the crowd, trailing after Claudia and Kristy.

"Where did Sam go?" Mary Anne asked Stacey. She was wearing a midnight blue dress that gleamed in the dim light, and she kept her arm looped through Pete's.

Stacey gave a small shrug, feeling a little flutter of butterflies in her stomach. "He said he wouldn't be long."

"You want a drink?" Pete asked. "I'll go get us some punch."

"Thanks," Mary Anne said.

Stacey shook her head. "No punch for me, thanks Pete."

Mary Anne edged closer to Stacey once Pete disappeared. "I'm really glad you came," she said. "You look beautiful, Stacey."

Stacey blushed. "Thanks, Mary Anne. You look beautiful too."

Mary Anne smiled nervously and fingered the pearl necklace at her throat. "Are you going to Austin Bentley's party, later?" she asked. "Pete's trying to talk me into it."

"I don't think so," Stacey said. "I don't want to drag Sam too far out of his comfort zone."

Sam chose that moment to return, two sticky plastic cups in his hands. "Water," he explained to Stacey, handing her one. "And punch for you, Mary Anne. I'd take it if you want punch at all, I think I got to it about three seconds before eight flasks of rum were emptied into it."

"Ew," Mary Anne said softly. She took the cup Sam offered to her. "Thanks."

Sam draped his arm around Stacey's waist and bent close to her ear, his voice murmuring over the music and the rise and fall of excited conversation around them. "So where's the jerk who stood you up?"

"I dunno," Stacey said honestly. "Maybe he's not here."

She was glad he'd gone to get her a drink. She wasn't ready to brave the dance floor yet – if at all – and she was happy to stand to the side and survey things.

Mary Anne and Pete disappeared to dance, and Stacey spotted Alan and Claudia at the edge of the floor talking to Austin Bentley, who was gesturing towards the punch with a grin on his face. Kristy had taken Bart's jacket to wear, and was talking animatedly to him and four of the guys from the SHS basketball team. Robert Brewster shook his head and countered something she said, which earned him a scowl and a rapid peppering of questions which didn't leave time for answers in between.

"So, you were just hanging around the house tonight?" Stacey asked, turning her attention back to Sam. "No date?"

"No date," Sam said. His fingers curled against the small of her back, his hand closing and expanding again slowly. "No dates on the horizon, either."

"So you just jumped at the chance to take me to prom, huh."

"What can I say," Sam said with a grin. "You're the X to my Y, McGill."

* * *

The night passed by in a blur, and Stacey found herself having a good time. She and Claudia danced, and giggled over some of the dresses they'd seen. Claudia confided her plans with Alan in hushed whispers, her cheeks rosy, eyes bright. And Stacey found herself smiling whenever Sam was near, his fingers wrapped in hers, his voice low in her ear.

"Thanks for being my date, Sam," Stacey murmured, her head on his shoulder as they circled slowly on the dance floor.

"Anytime, Stace." The heel of his hand skated slowly over the slippery bodice of her dress, tracing the dip of her waist, and she felt him press a kiss against the top of her head. "I've got a question for you," he said quietly, swaying in time to the music with her.

"Hm?"

"There's a guy looking at me like he wants to kill me," Sam said, and Stacey could hear the grin he was hiding against her hair. "What does Taryn look like, and just how jealous do you want to make him?"

Stacey felt her heart skip a beat. She swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment, letting Sam steer her in a slow circle, his hips flush with hers. She shifted her cheek against his shoulder and thought about how nice it was to be dancing with him, and what a good night she'd had, despite Taryn's best efforts to ruin everything.

"I don't want to use you to get back at him," Stacey said softly, but she felt a pleasant shiver when she looked up into Sam's blue eyes.

He smiled at her and shrugged. "So kiss me for some other reason."

She swayed towards him, her hand cupped against his jaw, and closed her eyes when she kissed him. It wasn't about Taryn at all – she felt it all the way down to her toes, her nerves pulling tight with an electricity which was all due to Sam.

They'd stopped dancing, and Sam's hands were on her waist. He rested his brow against hers. "So," he said softly, "I don't know what your original plans were, but... do you want to get out of here?"

Stacey nodded and kissed him again, her heart racing. "Yeah."

* * *

"Are you sure this is okay?"

"What's the point in being a millionaire's son if you can't use a credit card to get a last-minute hotel room for your prom date?" Sam asked, keying the door open with a grin.

Stacey rolled her eyes and walked into the room ahead of him. "You're a real romantic, Sam Thomas."

He caught her hand and pulled her to a stop as the door swung closed behind them. "I can just take you home, if you want," he said. He tugged her closer and pressed a line of kisses along her bare shoulder. "You're not here because you feel like you owe me something, are you? Because I'm not exactly unhappy about how tonight worked out, Stace."

"No," Stacey said, truthfully. "But..."

Sam looked down at her with an expression like he was bracing himself for something.

Stacey shrugged and looked down at one of his shirt buttons instead. "Maybe tonight is just... a rebound," she whispered, frowning at the words. "I didn't feel nothing for Taryn. Breaking up still hurts. Having a good time with you tonight doesn't mean he's completely out of my head."

"I know." Sam's hands skated up her arms and clasped her shoulders, and she looked up at him again. "Just tell me if there's something you want, okay?"

She looked up at him, her fingers curling over his belt, pulling him closer. "I'm just not sure about tomorrow," she said quietly.

He kissed her again, bending lower as she stepped out of her shoes. "Tomorrow's ages away," he whispered.

She laughed, and stretched out on the bed, sighing when he settled on top of her, pushing her dress up her thighs so she could bend her knees and wrap her legs around him.

"Just so we're clear," Sam murmured, his fingers tracing circles against Stacey's hip, "you're not a virgin, are you?"

"Don't worry," Stacey said, shaking her head.

"Because I don't think I could perform to those sorts of expectations."

"It's still going to be _our_ first time," she said, propping herself up on her elbows as he tugged his shirt over his head. "My expectations are still sky-high."

"Prepare to be disappointed," he said cheerfully.

She laughed, and wrapped her arms around him when he came close again, giggling into his neck when he started to laugh with her.

"When was your first time?" she asked, lifting herself a little so he could find the zip at the back of her dress.

"Prom," he said. "My prom. It was fucking terrible. It was awkward, and neither of us was really into it, I don't think. I wasn't so fast to get to the punch that night, and she got drunk and cried, and I got drunk and was worse at this than I might have been otherwise..."

"No wonder you raced to the refreshments table tonight," Stacey said.

"Yeah, well. Lesson learned." He grinned at her.

She grinned back at him and raised her hips so he could slide her dress all the way off. For a moment she found herself wondering if Taryn was in a hotel room somewhere – the hotel room he'd booked to go to with her – and whether or not he was with another girl.

Sam's tongue traced the crease of her thigh and she squirmed and tugged at his hair until he was in a better position to kiss her again. He kicked his pants to the end of the bed.

"I want to be on top," Stacey whispered, "and I'm going to keep my bra on, whether you like it or not."

"Yes ma'am," Sam murmured seriously.

"Also, just so you know, the only reason I have condoms in my purse is because my mom insisted I bring them."

Sam rolled onto his back and laughed, his hands over his eyes. "Oh my god," he said. "Remind me to thank your mom for getting me laid."

Stacey grinned and swung herself on top of him, kissing him again. He laughed against her mouth and leaned into her, his hands grasping her hips and pulling her down against him.

"Hey, Stace," he said, "keeping in mind that we're not thinking about tomorrow, and how last minute our amazing prom night was..."

"Mm," Stacey agreed, looking down at him with a smile.

"I love you to bits, okay? That other guy doesn't deserve you."

She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him again, her pulse jumping beneath her skin. "I love you, too," she said, "Y to my X."


	47. Bedroom

**Title/Prompt:** Bedroom  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 832  
**Summary:** Charlotte's too sick to make it to class.

**Notes:** Written for _miss_slipslop_ for _fandom_stocking_ 2013. I shamelessly stole head canon developed by her and _lucida_ or this. This plays on that blurry border between het and gen, so it's tagged both. I like to think you can read it either way.

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

* * *

Charlotte sat up, dragging her blankets with her, her hair tangled and pillow-rough from dozing in bed all day. "You're the best," she said groggily, reaching for the books Nicky had piled in his arms.

"You're the absolute worst," he said, dumping them across her legs. "Your bedroom is a quarantined zone – or it should be – and I've broken the border. You're still totally contagious. Look at you, you're disgusting."

"Don't be mean, I'm sick." She thumbed through his notebook. "I can't read this. Your handwriting is worse now than it was at the start of the semester."

Nicky rolled his eyes and sat down on the end of her bed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Feeling better?"

"Not really." She tossed the book back at him and nestled back under her comforter. "Was class boring without me?"

"I got a lot more done," Nicky said, grinning at her. "You're a distraction, Johanssen."

She laughed, and turned her head to cough into her pillow. "Ow," she groaned, her body ringing with pain.

"Where's your roommate?" Nicky kicked his shoes off and shoved himself backwards so he could lean against the wall. "Buried under one of these piles of books?"

Charlotte spluttered another cough into her pillow. "It's not that bad."

"It's pretty bad," Nicky said, looking around her bedroom. "Almost at a Pike standard of clutter."

"Yeah, right." She reached for the tissues on her night stand. "She's at her boyfriend's place. She said sickness grosses her out and she'll be back on Saturday."

"Yeah, just look at you," Nicky said, turning his attention back to her. "I can practically see the germs. I'll name them for you, if you want."

Charlotte laughed and kicked at him. "Oh my god, go away."

He laughed, and picked up his notebook, flipping through it to read over the notes he'd scratched on the paper. "So you're here all by yourself?"

"I have my germs to keep me company," she mumbled. She closed her eyes and sighed.

Her bed shifted under his weight as he stretched out beside her. "Keeping your fluids up, Char? And you should take some paracetamol, too."

"Leave me alone," she moaned, half-heartedly kicking at him. "You're worse than my mother."

He grinned and leaned over her, his palm cool against her brow.

She curled her fingers around his glasses to slip them off, sliding them onto her own face and blinking up at him. "Remember that time I hit you with the snowball and broke your glasses," she whispered.

"Remember I stuffed a snowball down the back of your coat?"

"And then we teamed up and attacked Haley Braddock."

"Dropped her like a bag of dirt."

She laughed, and coughed, and he put his head on her pillow and waited until it was quiet again. "Okay?"

"I'll be in class tomorrow," she said, staring up at her ceiling through the smudgy lenses of Nicky's glasses.

"No you won't."

"I'm bored," she whined. "It's boring here, and I'm missing stuff."

"You can borrow my notes."

"Your notes aren't as good as mine." She turned her head to look at him, but he was too close, and his features were fuzzy through the glasses.

He tugged them off her face and folded them in his hand. "I'll take better notes," he said. "You need another day in bed."

"Mmph." She sighed and closed her eyes. "Do I look really gross?"

"Really gross."

"You're next."

"Nah," he said. "I'm made of stronger stuff than you. You remember my family, right? I basically grew up in a Petri dish. My immune system is amazing."

She gave a breathless laugh and rolled over, pulling her blankets tight around her shoulders and curling up into a ball. "Tell me what I missed today," she requested, closing her eyes.

"Like a bedtime story?" He nudged one arm beneath her and took her hand, slipped his other arm in under her comforter. She shivered when he let cold air in.

"Mm." She felt him lace his fingers through hers, his brow dropping against the back of her neck.

"It was stuff you already know," he said. "Lung stuff. The lobes. Three on this side, two on this side." He touched his palm over her ribs and she drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, imagining her lungs filling and falling, filling and falling.

"Fissures," he added, his thumb tracing lines, "oblique and horizontal, and the posterior border and anterior border."

"Grade school stuff," Charlotte complained, her voice almost lost in her pillow.

"Totally," he agreed. "You're not missing anything. We could stay here and talk to ourselves for three days and we'd come out better off, probably."

"Probably," she agreed. "Keep going, Nicky."

He squeezed her hand and rested his brow against her neck again, his voice vibrating quietly against her skin, and she drew in one breath after another, in and out, in and out, lungs working just as he described them to be.


	48. White

**Title/Prompt:** White  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 850  
**Summary:** Before they can come to an agreement on anything, Kristy and Alan have to fight.

**Notes:** The last of my 2013 fandom_stocking fics! This one was for _hopeonfire_.

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

* * *

"Missed me!" Alan crowed. He scooped up another double-handful of snow and started packing it together, shaping it into a ball in his palms, his knees bent as though to run at any moment.

"The next one's coming at your head!" Kristy snapped, dumping her bag to the ground and brushing snow out of her bangs. "You're so dead."

"You wanna put some action to the words coming out of that big mouth of yours?" Alan asked. He flung another snowball so suddenly Kristy barely had time to duck. It sailed overhead and she heard it smash against the ground behind her.

She scooped up a snowball of her own, packing it down as hard and as fast as she could. She looked around to see if she could rope any allies into a snowball fight, but the SHS parking lot was mostly empty. She'd only stayed behind to go over the student council notes for the Winter Wonderland dance one more time. "Why are you still here, anyway?" she asked suspiciously, adding more snow to the ball in her hands.

Alan shrugged and gave her a grin. "Detention."

Kristy scoffed, and flung her snowball. He twisted on the spot and it burst in a glittery puff against the back of his coat.

"Oh, you got me!" He staggered dramatically.

Kristy brushed herself down. "I don't have time for this, Alan!"

He grinned at her again. "Run away then," he said, and then he burst into a loud chicken impersonation, strutting around with his hands tucked up under his arms.

Kristy flung a handful of snow at him without bothering to ball it up. Most of it fell short.

"What sort of a throw was that?" Alan asked. "You've got puny girl arms, Kristy! Puny girl arms!"

Kristy growled and threw herself forward, lunging at him so they landed in a drift of snow at the side of the lot, arms and legs tangled. Alan swore and laughed breathlessly, tried to heave her off, but she'd caught him by surprise and he was winded from the fall.

She scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it against his face.

"Bitch!" He laughed again. "I –"

The next handful went against the back of his neck, under his scarf, and he gave a high-pitched yell.

"You squeal like a girl!" Kristy said triumphantly, and then he flipped her and she was floundering around in the snow bank with him, gasping as it clumped against her hair and sifted between her clothing and her skin.

She ducked his attempt to rub snow in her face, twisted under his weight and shoved at his chest so he fell back again. She laughed at the look of surprise on his face and then shunted herself back, trying to scramble to her feet before he recovered.

He grabbed the hem of her coat and she slipped. She caught his wrist, his hand curled around a packed clump of snow.

"I'll kill you," she gasped. "It'll be the last thing you do, Alan, I swear..."

He laughed, and Kristy saw the sun glinting on the flakes caught in his hair.

"Gotta ask you somethin'," he said, holding the clump up.

Kristy gripped his wrist, not trusting him enough to let him go. She scowled at him. "What?"

"Go to the dance with me?"

She spluttered. "What?"

"If you say no, I might drop this," he said, his eyes widening, his hand waving the clump of snow back and forth in front of her face.

"Why would I want to go to the dance with you after _this_?" Kristy asked.

"Because I'm all wet and cold and you feel sorry for me?"

She shoved him away and he fell back into the snow. "Alan!"

He laughed and staggered to his feet, dropping the clump he'd been threatening to rub against her face. He reached down to offer her a hand.

Kristy scowled at him and brushed it aside, heaving herself up without any assistance. "I have to get here early to help set up," she said. "I'm not going to the dance with anyone."

He shrugged and dusted snow from his shoulders. "Just save one dance for me, then."

"I don't dance."

"I don't either. We're a perfect match." He grinned at her.

"Oh, jeez," Kristy muttered under her breath. She straightened her scarf with a sigh. "Fine," she said. "One dance."

He grinned again and bounced on the balls of his feet. "Cool," he said. "See you Friday, then."

"I'll see you in math tomorrow," Kristy said, raising her eyebrow at him. "Goodbye, Alan."

She waited until he'd turned to walk back to his car, and then she flung one last, hastily-packed snowball at him. It hit him in the back of the head and he gave a yell and spun around, his eyes wide.

"Just in case you –" She broke off as he started running for her. "No!" she shrieked, and she jumped for the drift again, trying to scramble ahead of him.

She was laughing as he dragged her back down into the snow.


	49. Abandon

**Title/Prompt:** Abandon  
**Rating/Warnings:** R | explicit sexual content  
**Word count:** 10.022  
**Summary:** Charlie Thomas knows two things: History can repeat itself in the worst possible ways, and family is what you make it.

**Notes:** This has been an idea in the works for ages, but I really only made any progress on it once it became a shippier piece. I took advantage and incorporated it into **Porn Battle XV The Ides of Porn**, using the porn battle prompts: love, skirt, date, family, domestic, care, apartment, comfort

It also fills the helping square on my **cottoncandy_bingo** card.

This is basically Kitchen 2.0 - idek you guys.

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

* * *

Charlie stifles a yawn as he waits to make a left-hand turn into McLelland Road. Someone has attached a miniature American flag to the post for Independence Day, and it hangs loose and still in the morning heat.

"You ready for this, kid?" he asks, glancing in the rear view mirror. "Got your game face on?"

His daughter ignores him, rubbing her eyes and fussing, irritable from being in the car so long.

"I hope you've got your game face on," Charlie continues, letting the steering wheel spin against his palms as he straightens the car again. "Aunt Karen is going to force you to play, you know."

Emily Michelle is the first person out the door when Charlie pulls into the driveway. She races across the lawn and jumps through the flower bed, knocking the petals from two yellow roses.

"Let me hold her, Charlie!" she begs.

"Hey to you too," Charlie says, stretching. He can feel damp sweat against his back – the sun is already white and hot in the sky, despite it only being mid-morning. "Happy Fourth, et cetera."

"Yeah, yeah," Emily says, already reaching into the backseat for her niece. "She's grown so much!"

"You saw her two weeks ago," Charlie says, but he grins and leans against the car.

Karen arrives, breathless. "You're such a jerk, Charlie," she says. "I've been waiting for you guys all morning, and the minute I let my guard down you finally show up and Emily Michelle gets first cuddles."

"You can have a consolation prize and help me carry Molly's stuff in," Charlie says, popping the trunk.

"You've got five minutes before I pry her out of your arms," Karen warns Emily Michelle, before she hoists two bags out of the back of Charlie's car.

"Try it," Emily says, poking her tongue out. She bounces Molly gently and carries her towards the house. Molly looks like she's about to start wailing any minute.

"Hey, where's Jess?" Karen asks, glancing around.

"She's staying with her folks this weekend," Charlie says, and he slams the trunk and starts towards the house. "If you want to spoil Molly at all today, you'd better get in before Watson invokes his Grandpa Privileges again."

"There's no such thing as Grandpa Privileges," Karen mutters, slinging a bag over her shoulder and hurrying past him. "And if he thinks I won't knock an old man down to get to her..."

"I'll be sure to warn him," Charlie says, following her into the house.

* * *

Sam and Kristy are still missing, but the house is full and loud. Molly tires of it quickly and won't stop crying until Charlie eventually takes her back into his arms, just to cut off one source of the noise.

"How come Jess isn't here?" David Michael asks around a mouthful of pretzels.

"Say it, don't spray it," Andrew says, snatching the bag out of his hands.

"She's at her parents' place," Charlie says again.

"Her loss," Karen says. "Who wouldn't want to spend this weekend with us?"

"She probably still got some sanity left," David Michael tells her. "Probably wants to try and hang onto it."

"Ha!" Emily barks. She cups her hands around her mouth and stage-whispers to Charlie, "Sam says he's bringing fireworks."

"He's _not_ bringing fireworks," Elizabeth says firmly, trying to fit a giant bowl of potato salad in the fridge. "If you want to see fireworks you'll have to go to Brenner Field like everyone else."

"Or ask Kristy about Bart Taylor," David Michael says.

Karen laughs. "Zing."

Elizabeth pushes the fridge door closed and blows her hair out of her face. "I said fireworks, David Michael, not warfare. Leave Kristy alone."

David Michael and Karen exchange a conspirational look, which clearly says they're making no promises.

* * *

"Hey."

Charlie half-turns, but keeps his eyes on Molly, asleep in a crib in his old bedroom. "Hey," he murmurs back.

Elizabeth slips her arm through his and looks down at her granddaughter. She doesn't say anything for a while, and Charlie knows she's giving him a chance to figure out how to say what's on his mind.

He tightens his fingers around the rail of the crib, but his mouth is too dry to talk.

"Is everything all right?" Elizabeth asks finally. "You're quiet today."

He shakes his head and gives her a wobbly grin. "Not quiet. Just not as loud as everyone else."

She laughs softly. "Fair point."

He shifts his gaze back to Molly. He throws together a quick excuse in his head – _Just tired; Molly is going through a stage..._

"Jess left me," he whispers, and the sound of it in his own voice, aloud, turns his blood cold.

Elizabeth looks up at him quickly, and Charlie can practically see the colour draining from her face. "What?"

He takes a step back to sink onto the end of his bed. "I thought maybe you'd figured it out already."

"Charlie..." She sits beside him, one hand against his back.

He turns his wedding ring around on his finger. He can't look at her – he can feel an ache in his throat and behind his eyes and he'll be damned if he lets his mother see him cry over this. He grits his teeth and waits a few minutes until it subsides enough he can speak again.

"She moved out," he says. "Week or so ago."

"Why?" Elizabeth asks. She wipes at her eyes and looks over at the crib. "What about Molly...?"

Charlie shakes his head, grits his teeth again. He can feel his mom's hand moving between his shoulder blades in little circles. He lets out a little gasp he can't quite smother, passes his hand over his eyes and stares down at the floor.

"She..." He clears his throat and stops. "Everyone will have to know," he says, panic overwhelming him suddenly. "I tried to rehearse this all in my head..."

"I know," Elizabeth says softly. "It's okay, sweetheart."

He shakes his head.

"Don't worry about it," she says. "Nobody else has to know just now."

"I just want it over with," he says. "I just want to get to the point where it feels okay again."

"It _will_ be okay," Elizabeth agrees. "I promise. We're all going to help, okay? You're not going to be alone."

He nods, and they sit silently for a few minutes, her hand circling slowly over his back.

"Did you ever forgive Patrick?" he asks after a moment, daring to look over at his mother. He wishes immediately he hadn't – her face is shiny and wet with tears.

She runs a hand over his hair. "I never really think of him now," she says softly. "But I don't think I ever forgave him, either."

"He never told us why," Charlie says, looking down at the floor again. "I always hated not knowing why."

"Me too," Elizabeth whispers. She strokes his hair again, and Charlie watches out of the corner of his eye as she turns her gaze to Molly again.

"Sometimes it's worse," he says in a hollow voice, "hearing the real reason."

"What did she say?" Elizabeth asks, and there's a hard edge to her voice now; the same tone she gets whenever Patrick is brought up.

Charlie's long since grown accustomed to the sour feeling he gets when he thinks of his father. Patrick's name alone is enough to send ripples of self-doubt and anger through his body, but even Patrick was never cruel enough to stand in front of him and tell him in actual words:

_You're not what I want anymore._

* * *

"I will fucking _kill_ her," Kristy says. "What a _bitch_."

"Kristy," Watson says, but his tone isn't particularly disapproving. "Tone your language down, please."

Charlie had fallen asleep, waking when Molly stirred to the sound of Kristy's car doors slamming outside. He lingers at the bottom of the stairs with Molly quiet in his arms, listening to Kristy and Karen swap vocal anger back and forth over what's happened, his mom gently chiming in now and then to try and keep things calm.

He skirts around the living room and heads for the kitchen instead. He catches sight of Sam through the glass doors, sitting on the porch step and staring out at the lawn.

"Hey," Charlie says, sliding the door open. "Mind watching Molly for a minute while I get her formula ready?"

"You kidding?" Sam gives him a grin, but Charlie can tell he knows. "I thought I'd have to lock the girls in the basement before I got a chance with this kid."

Charlie gives him a grin and looks back over his shoulder. "They're otherwise engaged right now."

Sam bounces Molly on his knee. She starts to cry when Charlie leaves, but he's not gone long. He sits beside Sam on the porch step, sheltered by the shade of the wisteria clambering over the arch above them, and hands Sam a bottle of formula.

"She'll hold it if she's in the mood," he says. "Or if she doesn't trust you to do it properly."

"How old is she now?" Sam asks.

"Five months, one week and two days," Charlie says, watching Molly blinking at him as she swallows her formula down, lashes wet and spiky.

"You're an obsessive-as-shit parent," Sam says.

Charlie laughs and leans back on his hands. "How's Laura?" he asks.

"Great," Sam says, and Charlie doesn't miss the dreamy grin that appears before Sam manages to control it away again. "She's working this weekend, but she said to say hi to everyone."

They sit in silence for a while, until Sam says, "Mom told me what happened with Jess." He taps his fingers gently against Molly's bare toes. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be okay," he says lightly. He looks out across the lawn, still gleaming wet in the shade from the sprinklers that morning.

"Pretty sure Kristy and Karen are ready to start a Thomas-Brewer chapter of the Stoneybrook Mafia, if you're interested," Sam says, looking at Charlie out of the corner of his eye.

Charlie laughs again and rubs at his eyes, feeling tired. "Not really," he says. "Revenge isn't my style."

Sam tickles the bottom of his niece's foot gently. She twists her head to look at him with wide blue eyes. "What's gonna happen with Molly?" he asks.

Charlie runs his fingers through his hair. "She's with me," he says. "Jess has already agreed to that."

They're interrupted as the back door opens and Watson appears. He gives Charlie a kind, sorry smile, but he doesn't linger over any sadness. "Time for the barbecue, Sam," he says. "You'd better let me hold Molly Elizabeth while you're busy getting everything ready."

"No way, old man," Sam says, circling his arms around Molly. "I got her first. And I'll fight you for her, fisticuffs style, if I have to."

"I'll cut you out of the will," Watson jokes.

Sam laughs. "Touché."

* * *

Charlie doesn't really want to talk about it, but the reality is plans need to be made, and one of Kristy's favourite past times is planning for absolutely everything.

"We could do shifts," she says. "A week here, a week there."

"That's not going to work," Charlie says, trying to be patient, but sounding irritable anyway. "Kristy, you just started a new job, and Sam, Karen and David Michael would all have to fly home whenever I need them for baby-sitting duties. Not to mention Mom would kill me if I suggested Andrew and Emily Michelle just put school aside for a while."

"But it's stupid to hire someone to look after her when we've got an entire family at our disposal!" Kristy says, rubbing her dish towel against a dinner plate aggressively.

"Well, what else can I do?" Charlie asks, feeling suddenly desperate. "I have to go back to work soon, and I need someone to watch Molly during the day."

"How could she leave, anyway?" Kristy asks through gritted teeth. "What's _wrong_ with her?"

"Kristy, give it a rest," Sam says tiredly, pulling the dish towel out of her hands. He starts to shepherd her out of the kitchen.

"We'll figure something out," Kristy says, locking eyes with Charlie. "Don't do anything rash. I'll think of something, I swear."

"I know you will," Charlie says, leaning against the counter. "Thanks, Kristy."

She shoves Sam lightly. "If you want to dry dishes you can," she says. "Don't take my disappearance as a sign of defeat."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Sam says. "Just go and flap your mouth somewhere else for a while." He wanders back to Charlie with a grin. "Molly cries whenever Karen gets too close," he says. "It's hilarious."

"She's been a bit weird with other people lately," Charlie says. "I don't know if it's a normal stage or something she's picked up since Jess left."

"You know, if you do need someone to watch her for a while, just ask," Sam says seriously. "We're gonna help you out."

"I know." Charlie smiles.

* * *

Charlie gets home to two messages on his machine. He settles Molly on a blanket on the floor before he plays them, heart in his throat, hoping against hope he's going to hear his wife's voice.

The first message is from Elizabeth. "It's just me, honey," she says, "and I know you're not home. I just wanted to tell you again that I know everything is hard right now, and you're worried about what you're going to do and what's going to happen, but you and Molly are going to be just fine. The hardest part is asking for help. Don't be scared to call if you need to. I love you both."

He sinks onto the couch with a small smile and waits for the second message to come through. It's less than twenty minutes old.

"It's Kristy," his sister says, her voice loud even on tape. "And I have found your salvation, Charlie. She'll be coming by at nine o'clock on Monday morning. I _told_ you I would help you figure it out."

* * *

Even when he calls Kristy back, she won't tell him what's going on.

"It's a surprise," she says smugly. "But you can trust me. It's for Molly, okay? It's going to be fine."

Sometimes Kristy can get a little carried away with her own ideas, but Charlie knows her heart is always in the right place, and she takes nothing more seriously than the happiness of her family. If she says it will be okay, it's not too difficult to believe her.

He spends early Monday morning in a quiet state of panic, though, until his apartment buzzer sounds and he recognises the voice that speaks back to him, even before she says her name.

"Hi, Charlie. It's Mary Anne Spier."

* * *

Mary Anne smiles at Charlie when he lets her into the apartment, giving him a small shrug. "Sorry about the big mystery. Kristy was kind of insistent."

He shakes his head, grinning back at her as he steps back to let her into the apartment. "No, don't – don't worry. Hi."

"Hi," she says, and she laughs and glances around the apartment, eyes settling on Molly in her bouncer. She smiles. "I hope it's okay that I'm here."

"Of course it is, it's – I mean... You're here for a job, right? Did Kristy explain..." He trails off.

"If it's okay with you," Mary Anne says. She looks a little uncomfortable. "I don't want to put you in a position where you think this has to work out. If it's not going to be all right for you and Molly, then that's fine, of course –"

"Mary Anne, if you want it, the job is yours," he interrupts. Relief floods him.

"Oh," she says, smiling at him. "Great!"

"Great," he agrees.

He doesn't bother trying to analyse things too closely. He doesn't particularly care about what set of circumstances has led Mary Anne to his door, though he knows Kristy was probably the main reason for it. But he also knows he can trust Mary Anne – that she is sensible and reliable, and trustworthy. He knows she is good with kids; he knows she'll care for Molly not just because Mary Anne is a caring person, but because Molly is a Thomas, and Mary Anne has loved the Thomas family her whole life.

* * *

They sit down together to sort out how their arrangement will work, and it shouldn't surprise Charlie how easy it is to talk to Mary Anne, but time passes quickly and he finds himself relaxing and forgetting about just how unhappy he's been the past two weeks.

She hasn't changed much since the last time he spent any significant amount of time with her – her hair is cut shorter and he notices her fidgeting nervously sometimes, but he can't remember if that's always been a habit or if he's noticing it because he's a bit nervous, too.

He learns she finished college but ended up hating her degree, and she's just worked odd jobs since graduating – waitressing, baby-sitting, retail. She tried to follow Dawn's example and see corners of the country she's never seen before, but ended up hating it, homesick and miserable.

"Dawn's going to spend three months backpacking through Asia," she says, staring down at her hands. "She wanted me to go as well, but I missed Dad and Sharon. And Stoneybrook. I just felt like I needed to come home."

"I've never really wanted to be far from home, either," Charlie admits, and Mary Anne smiles at him.

"Have you got an apartment here?" he asks.

"Not yet," she says. "I've started looking – but if you want me to start right away, it's not far on the train from Stoneybrook."

"Do you want the spare bedroom?" he asks, only slightly hesitant. "Even if it's just until you find somewhere else?"

She looks unsure.

"Only if you're comfortable with it," Charlie says hastily. "I mean, I don't want you to think I'd expect you to sit for Molly all the time. Just when I'm not here. But it's not like there's no room for you..." He gestures around with a small smile. "This place was a wedding present from Watson," he says. "He kind of overestimated how much space we'd need."

"Well," Mary Anne says, her smile wider now, "that would mean I could start right away, I guess."

* * *

Mary Anne moves into the spare room. She doesn't bring much, but the space is immediately hers, and Charlie never even considers intruding into it, or asking her to keep it a certain way.

Molly is suspicious of Mary Anne at first, clinging to Charlie and crying when he leaves the room, but it's a stage that doesn't last long, and Mary Anne is patient. On his first day back at work, he shuts the apartment door quietly behind him, Molly's giggling lingering like a happy little glow in his chest.

* * *

"We need to get a kettle," Mary Anne says one morning, sitting on one of the kitchen stools at the counter as Charlie wipes Molly's face clean.

"Why?" he asks, distracted.

"I need tea."

"Just microwave a mug of water like a normal person."

He feels the weight of the look she gives him before he even glances up to her. "What?" he asks, laughing at the horrified expression on her face.

"There is an art to making tea," Mary Anne says, pointing her cereal spoon at him, "and at no point should a microwave ever be involved."

Charlie lifts Molly up so he can look her in the eyes. "She's crazy," he whispers. "Craaaazy."

Molly grins at him and he kisses her goodbye.

"Have a good day at work," Mary Anne says, taking Molly into her arms with a smile.

"You too," he tells them both, and he waves at Molly again just before he closes the apartment door behind him.

* * *

Charlie has to work late one night, and when he comes home Molly is already bathed and blinking sleepily as Mary Anne reads from a Dr. Seuss book. The apartment smells like rich baking tomatoes and cheese; Mary Anne has cooked lasagne for dinner.

"Hi," he says, pulling his tie off.

"Hi." Mary Anne smiles back at him. "Want to take over?"

Molly is two thirds of the way through her bottle of formula and almost asleep. Charlie sinks onto the couch beside Mary Anne and pulls his daughter gently into his lap.

"Keep going," he says. Molly blinks up at him and rests her head against his chest.

"Dr. Seuss," Mary Anne explains, curling up so she can angle the book at Molly again. "It's mostly for me, but she seems to enjoy it, too."

He laughs.

* * *

They eat dinner at the kitchen counter, and Mary Anne stacks their plates in the dishwasher and shifts the kettle to the top of the stove.

"Tea?" she asks, reaching for the box of teabags in the top cupboard.

"Sure," Charlie says, though he's still not really sure he likes drinking tea. He agrees mostly because it's become part of the routine and he likes watching Mary Anne play through the little ritual of boiling and steeping and stirring.

"I feel guilty," he says after a moment, voicing the horrible grey feeling that's been fogging his mind all day. "About working late."

"You couldn't help it," Mary Anne says, looking back at him across the counter.

"It was just paperwork," Charlie says. "I could have brought it home and done it later, after Molly had gone to sleep."

"It's all done now," Mary Anne says, uncurling a string from one of the teabags. "Trust me, Charlie, the occasional late night at work isn't going to break anything." She gives him a smile that is incredibly knowing and understanding, and something familiar and happy blooms in his chest.

* * *

Mary Anne goes home most weekends. Charlie knows it's mostly so she can spend time with her dad and Sharon, but he suspects she does it to give him some alone time with Molly, as well.

Molly is getting more and more talkative, stringing sounds together that could be words if Charlie wanted to recognise them as such. They're not attached to any sort of recognition yet, but he still gets a funny feeling in his gut when she says anything remotely like Mama.

* * *

Mary Anne's birthday is on a Tuesday. Charlie calls Kristy from work.

"This might sound weird," he says, "but it's Mary Anne's birthday, and I need to get her something."

"Did she get my package?" Kristy interrupts.

"I don't know," Charlie says. "Maybe something arrived today."

"I might've included a present for Molly in there, too," Kristy says. "And instructions for you to send me more photos, because the ones I have are like a month old and I know I'm already behind on things."

"I haven't sent you photos for ages," he says.

"You've dropped the ball," Kristy agrees. "Mary Anne sends them."

"Oh." He blinks, and grins. "So – um, what should I get her for her birthday?"

"You've left it kind of late."

"I thought I could handle it alone," Charlie admits.

"Just get her a bunch of flowers," Kristy says. "She likes flowers."

"Flowers?" Charlie asks, wondering if that's going to be too easily misinterpreted as romantic.

"Trust me," Kristy says. "She'll already have at least two big bunches of flowers – one from her dad and Sharon, and another from Stacey McGill. She loves flowers. Get her flowers."

"Okay, okay."

"You're _welcome_," Kristy says.

* * *

Kristy was right about the flowers.

Mary Anne goes a little pink in the face, but Charlie's easily convinced it's just because of the attention and the gesture, rather than any unnecessary interpretation of romance.

"Thank you," she says, blushing up at him when he wishes her a happy birthday.

The box Kristy sent is still sitting on the coffee table, wrapping paper neatly plucked open at the tape. She's sent Mary Anne a book, and Molly a onesie with the hand-painted words _KRISTY IS MY FAVORITE AUNT_ on the front.

"I'm sorry you don't have a single aunt who understands the art of subtlety," Charlie tells Molly.

She holds her arms up and he lifts her for a cuddle, noticing the mound of whipped cream, chocolate cake and cherries on the kitchen counter. "You made yourself a birthday cake?" he asks Mary Anne, feeling a little sorry he didn't think to at least bring one home from the bakery.

"The standard Spier birthday cake," she tells him, looking proud. "Want a slice? Before dinner, even. Birthday rules."

"Sure." He sits Molly in her high chair and watches Mary Anne cuts two slices of cake.

One bite in and he's flooded by memories of a sun-soaked kitchen in Bradford Court, floral aprons and china cups. "Oh," he says suddenly, "your mom used to make this."

Mary Anne stares at him and he suddenly feels like he's fumbled something really important.

"I don't remember much about her," he says nervously. "Just – I don't really remember her at all, really. I was five when she died. She and Mom were friends. She was really nice, and – and she used to give me cake. It tasted just like this."

He comes just short of gritting his teeth to shut himself up. "I'm really sorry," he blurts.

Mary Anne shakes her head, and her eyes are misty, but she's smiling. She steps around the counter and wraps her arms around his neck, her face pressed against his shoulder. "That was the nicest present I've gotten all day," she says.

* * *

The weather starts to change. The leaves turn and the mornings and evenings are cooler, the days drawing in.

"Are you going to Stoneybrook this weekend?" Charlie asks Mary Anne one Saturday morning. She's curled up on the end of the couch in a t-shirt and pink striped pyjama pants, pulling funny faces at Molly, who is giggling at her from the floor.

"Not this weekend," Mary Anne says. "I'll just hang out here, if that's okay."

"Sure, of course it is," Charlie says. He watches Molly turn a plastic block around in her hands. "Maybe we'll all go to the park later," he says, hoping it doesn't sound like he expects Mary Anne to look after Molly even on her day off, but more like an invitation to spend the day together as... He's not sure. Family, maybe.

"That sounds like fun," Mary Anne says, smiling at him.

* * *

"Oh, great," Charlie says, pulling his tie loose with a sigh. "Thanks, kid."

Molly grins at him, her face and hands smeared with banana.

Across the room, the speaker by the door grinds as someone pushes the buzzer.

"I'll get it," Mary Anne says, passing him a damp wash cloth. "Go and change your tie."

He wipes his hands free of banana and tells himself he should know better by now than to get near Molly and her breakfast when he's already dressed for work. He pulls another tie from his closet and glances at his watch. "Who's at the door?" he asks, calling back through to the kitchen as he stands in front of the mirror.

"It's just a delivery," Mary Anne says. "You need to sign for it, he's coming up."

He walks back into the kitchen just as there's a knock, and he grabs his keys and drops a kiss against the top of Molly's head, careful to keep his tie out of the way. "Be a good girl," he says.

He pulls the door open, intending on signing for the package and then walking out to work, but he stops short at the sight of the guy in the dark suit, holding a wide yellow envelope in his hands.

"Charles Thomas?"

"Yes..."

"I'm here to serve you with divorce papers today." The envelope is passed into his hands with an apology. "Sorry."

His stomach drops sharply. He looks back over his shoulder towards Molly, still mushing banana between her fingers. Mary Anne stands beside her and stares back at him, face pale, tears gleaming in her eyes.

* * *

"Hi," Charlie says, holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder. "Just me."

"Hi," Mary Anne says. "Are you okay?"

He can hear Molly rambling loud syllables in the background. "Just letting you know I'll be a bit late," he says, twisting a pen in his fingers, staring down at the papers scattered across his desk. "I need to stop somewhere on my way home."

"Okay," Mary Anne says. "Take your time. We'll be fine here."

He drops the phone gently back into its cradle and swallows back the sour taste flooding his mouth.

* * *

"Jess!" He hammers on the door, his anger only building when he realises he's wasting time chasing her when he could be at home with Molly.

The house is dark; even her parents aren't in.

"Fuck it," he says in disgust, and he spins on the doorstep only to see Jess climbing out of her car on the opposite side of the street, wet yellow leaves clinging to her shoes. He waits for her to see him, and feels a small spark of satisfaction when he sees her steps falter.

"Hi, Charlie," she says softly, stopping on the sidewalk.

His mouth has gone dry, but he tries to hang onto the feeling that's been sitting in the pit of his stomach all day. "You couldn't call me, first?" he asks. "You couldn't call me and tell me I was about to be served with divorce papers?"

Jess tucks a blonde lock of her behind her ear and looks apologetic. "I'm sorry."

He suddenly has no idea what he's doing there. His anger has boiled up into a hard little ball and now he's choking on it, not able to expel any of it; it poisons him on the inside and he doesn't know what to do about it.

It finally starts to break, and a fragment of it comes through clean and sharp in his voice, even when he can feel tears burning in his eyes, even when everything else feels desperate and small. "How can you not want her?"

Jess brushes a fingertip against the corner of her eye and folds her arms over her chest, looking down at her shoes. "Charlie..."

"You knew," he croaks. "You knew what my dad did and then you turned around and did it as well. If you didn't want kids you should have been honest with me from the start."

"I thought I did," Jess says, looking up at him with tears brimming on her lashes. "Please don't think I'm happy about all of this, Charlie. I thought I knew what I wanted – but when I got pregnant, it was like a switch went off in my head..."

He swallows hard and takes a step back, shaking his head. "Don't."

"I wanted it all so much," Jess says. "But I couldn't feel what I was supposed to feel."

"So you thought it'd be okay to just abandon us, instead?" he asks. He curls his fingers into fists by his side.

She doesn't answer him. She can't look at him, and he wonders at which point they became strangers, pulling in such opposite directions, when they're both still so young and their history is so short.

"Molly's going to ask me, one day," Charlie says. "She'll ask me why you left. What am I supposed to tell her?"

"I don't know," Jess says sharply. She brushes another tear away on the back of her hand. "I'm sorry. I really am, okay? Mothers aren't supposed to feel this way. There's something wrong with me and I get that. But I can't play happy families. Life is too short to waste."

He can't stand the hate he can feel – it scares him and it's unfamiliar and horrible and he doesn't know how to handle it. He leaves her on the sidewalk with the most hurtful, honest thing he can think of:

"She deserves better than you."

* * *

Mary Anne looks like she's been crying, but she gives him a brave smile when he finally lets himself into the apartment, darkness pressing in against the windows.

"Hi," she says. "Are you okay?"

"Hi." He shrugs out of his coat. "Peachy."

"I just put Molly to bed," Mary Anne says hesitantly. "Do you want something to eat?"

"No thanks." He tries to give her a smile back, but it doesn't feel right on his face. He sinks onto the couch and, after a moment, Mary Anne sits next to him.

She doesn't say anything – just sits there quietly. After a few minutes he takes her hand, and she shuffles closer to him so he can rest his head down on her shoulder. He stares at the blank screen of the television, at their blurred reflections in the glass.

"Nothing's going to change," he says quietly. "I'll sign the papers and Jess and I will get divorced and then everything will be just like it was yesterday."

She squeezes his hand, her fingers playing through his, thumb rubbing at his skin. "Yesterday was a good day," she says.

He nods and closes his eyes when she kisses the top of his head.

* * *

Charlie takes his wedding ring off the day he files his affidavit with the County Clerk, not quite sure why it took him so long.

He knows Mary Anne has noticed, because when he comes home from work the next day, there's a cherry chocolate cake sitting on the kitchen counter.

She shrugs and smiles at him when he looks at her.

"It's also a rainy day cake," she says.

* * *

The Thomas-Brewer house looks like a tinsel bomb has hit it.

"I can't even make a joke about you missing a spot," Sam complains to Emily Michelle, "because there is literally no spot you have missed."

"It took a whole weekend," Emily Michelle says, "and that was with Gabbie's help."

"Hey, when are we supposed to get some snow?" Karen asks, pushing her glasses up.

"Ask Mr. Meteorologist," Kristy says.

"You're hilarious," Sam says. "It snowed this morning, and you would have seen it if you'd dragged your sorry ass out of bed any earlier than ten, Karen."

"It's not worth getting up for if it doesn't stick," Karen mutters.

Charlie sits and listens to his siblings bicker back and forth with happy voices and laughter. He's in a good mood, for the most part, but he can't escape the thought that it's Molly's first Christmas and her mom isn't there.

When he takes Molly upstairs for her nap after lunch, feeling drowsy himself, he stops on the landing and looks at the photographs on the wall, noticing his wedding day is no longer a feature.

Molly points tiredly to a picture of Mary Anne and Kristy at their high school graduation, both of them smiling widely, and Charlie grins and kisses the top of his daughter's head.

"Yeah," he whispers, "I wish she was here, too."

* * *

"Wow, she's so much bigger than the last time I saw her," Laura says, gushing at Molly and blowing little kisses. "How old is she now?"

"Eleven months," Charlie says.

He likes Laura, and he thinks she and Sam make a good couple. He's also aware, though, that seeing her for the first time since his divorce has brought to light a new edge of protectiveness – because how the hell can he be sure she won't do the same thing to Sam that Jess did to him?

He can't, and it's none of his business, anyway, but the fact remains Jess has tainted his relationships with people who have had nothing to do with any of the heartache.

It's snowing, and most people have disappeared outside to dance around in the flurrying flakes, which are starting to settle thick and soft on the lawn.

Laura disappears to help Elizabeth make a round of hot chocolates for everyone when they come back inside, and Sam stands beside Charlie at the back door, watching the snow fall.

"Hey," Sam says, looking cautiously over his shoulder, "you like Laura, right?"

"Of course I do," Charlie says, suddenly feeling terrible, like Sam is aware of that new edge of caution and suspicion inside of him.

Sam rubs his hands together nervously. "I think I'm going to ask her to marry me on New Year's Eve," he says in a low voice.

The caution and suspicion immediately gives way. Charlie is relieved when his reaction is one of happiness instead. "That's great," he says, honestly meaning it. "I'm really happy for you both."

"I was gonna ask her six months ago," Sam says nervously.

Charlie's about to ask why he didn't. "Oh, Sam," he says. "Don't tell me it was because of me and Jess."

Sam shrugs. "No," he says, but he doesn't sound very truthful. He shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets. "I don't know," he says eventually. "Marriage scares the shit out of me, Charlie."

Charlie watches the snow slowly pile up on the lawn. "Don't let a couple of bad stories talk you out of it," he says eventually. "We ended up better off without Patrick, right? You could have something as strong as Mom and Watson."

"Yeah," Sam says, and Charlie thinks he can see him visibly relax a little.

"Doesn't matter what happened with Jess," Charlie adds after a moment. "I got Molly out of my marriage. I can't regret anything that gave me that much."

* * *

Charlie lies awake on Christmas night, listening to Molly breathe peacefully in the crib at the end of his bed, his head still full of the chaos of Christmas Day.

It's been a good day – a great day – but even in his happiest moments, it felt like something was missing.

He thinks again about Molly pointing to Mary Anne's photograph, and his stomach gives an odd little twist. He turns his head and looks over at the empty bed beside him, and lets himself wonder what it would be like to have a person both he and Molly love so much right there beside him.

* * *

Charlie closes the door softly behind him. The apartment is quiet, and warm. Mary Anne is nowhere to be seen. "Hello?" he calls, dropping his keys on the coffee table.

"In here," Mary Anne calls from her bedroom, and Charlie can see the glow of a lamp spilling from the open door.

When she doesn't appear to greet them, Charlie approaches cautiously, working with one hand to unbutton Molly's coat, her fingers catching his and pulling as she tries to help.

Mary Anne is sitting on her bed, her right foot propped up on two pillows, ankle bandaged. There are crutches leaning against the wall.

Charlie's stomach gives an unpleasant lurch. "What happened?"

Mary Anne grins at Molly and reaches for her, and Molly hastily tilts herself in Charlie's arms, stretching for Mary Anne's hands. Charlie sinks onto the side of the bed and lets her crawl into Mary Anne's lap.

"I slipped," Mary Anne says, answering Charlie's question. She's already a little red in the face, and it only deepens as she explains. "There was a patch of ice on the steps in front of the train station, and I guess I just wasn't paying attention."

"Are you okay?" Charlie glances down at her ankle.

"Oh, it's just a bad sprain," she says. "I just need to keep off it for a couple of days. And my arm kind of hurts, but the doctor said it's just bruising." She pulls her sleeve back to display a purple bruise on her elbow. "She gave me some painkillers." She motions towards her nightstand.

Charlie glances at the little orange bottle sitting by her alarm clock, and then his heart skips a beat as he recognises the little circular pill packet beside it. He turns his attention away from it immediately, trying to forget he's just seen Mary Anne's birth control, and the images and ideas it's suddenly burning into his mind.

"Did you guys have a fun Christmas?" she asks, easing Molly's arms out of the sleeves of her coat.

"No," Molly says automatically, and then she giggles and throws herself forward to bury her face in Mary Anne's pillow.

"No?" Mary Anne tickles her and laughs.

"We did so," Charlie says, tugging at Molly's foot. He pulls her shoes off and she digs her feet into the mattress and pushes herself further under Mary Anne's pillow. Mary Anne grins and puts an arm around her to stop her rolling off the bed, but she looks pale and tired.

"We'll let you get some rest," Charlie says, reaching for Molly.

"Oh, let her stay," Mary Anne says softly. She looks up at him and gives him a small shrug. "I missed you guys."

Charlie smiles at her. "We missed you, too."

* * *

Charlie grabs a book from the top of the pile Mary Anne has stacked on the coffee table, and sinks back onto the couch with Molly in his lap.

She's bathed and warm, and already blinking sleepily as she sucks at her bottle.

"Here we go, kiddo," Charlie says, feeling tired himself. "Can't go wrong with Dr. Seuss, right?"

Mary Anne appears in the doorway of her bedroom, looking like she's just woken up. She leans on her crutches. "Did I miss story time?"

"Nope," Charlie says, and he pats the cushion beside him.

"Oh, good," Mary Anne says. She smiles at Molly and hobbles over to the couch. "Ow, ow." She hisses through her teeth as she eases herself down, and Charlie finds himself helping her with a hand against her back. He curls his fingers around her shoulder and she settles back comfortably with a sigh.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says, and she leans her head against his arm and waits for him to open the book.

He's not willing to shift her, so he's only got one hand to angle the book towards Molly. After a moment Mary Anne takes it from him so she can turn the pages, but she leaves him to read aloud.

"You've got to do the funny voices," she says in a whisper, turning the page and looking up at him with big dark eyes.

"For you or for Molly?" he asks, grinning at her, and he uses their quiet laughter as an excuse to drop his forehead to hers for a moment, shivers passing all the way across his skin.

* * *

It's Sunday, the day before Molly's first birthday, and most of the Thomas-Brewer clan is gathered in the apartment, passing plates of Mary Anne's cake around after a loud and cheerful lunch.

"This kettle sure comes in handy when people want tea, huh?" Mary Anne asks, nudging Charlie as she stirs sugar into a cup for Elizabeth.

"Your a pain in my ass, Spier," he says, and she gives a giggle and nudges him again before she leaves to hand Elizabeth and Emily Michelle their tea.

Watson appears with a grin on his face, laughter drifting back from the living room. "Need a hand, Charlie?"

"I think I'm okay," Charlie says, closing the dishwasher. He glances after Mary Anne and leans on the counter. "Can I ask you something?" he says suddenly, not sure where the urge has come from, but the need to find out all the same.

"Of course."

"How did you know you were in love with Mom?" Charlie asks. "I mean – you and Lisa hadn't been divorced very long."

Watson can't quite control a glance back towards Mary Anne, and Charlie feels the slow crawl of embarrassment and frustration rising through his blood. He wonders how obvious it's becoming to everyone else, and what they might think.

"Charlie," Watson says kindly, "nobody else can tell you how to fall in love, or what's right or wrong about it. I wouldn't be able to explain to anyone what it was about your mother that had me so completely..." He draws a breath and smiles. "Floored," he says. "The important thing to know is that sometimes it takes more than one attempt before you get it so right."

* * *

Valentine's Day is coming.

At the back of Charlie's mind is a knot of anxiety about whether or not he should get Mary Anne something. He knows he wants to – but it doesn't feel appropriate, either, and he's not sure he'll be capable as passing it off as a sweet gesture with little meaning behind it.

When Mary Anne casually tells him she has a date the weekend before Valentine's Day, he's a little relieved, because now it feels like she's settled into that role with someone else – but his heart still sinks.

"I don't really want to go," she says, and Charlie's not sure whether to believe her or if she's saying it because he's giving off a vibe he doesn't approve.

"Go, you'll have fun," he promises, trying to sound like he means it.

She winds her scarf around her neck. "It's just a guy from the coffee shop I stop at on the way to the park with Molly," she says. "We have a five minute conversation every day as he makes my coffee. There's no real profound connection or anything."

He manages to make his laugh sound light-hearted. "Don't over-think it. Just go."

She gives him a look he can't quite decipher – something that lasts a second too long, and she draws a breath before she shakes her head and blows Molly a kiss. "Night, baby girl," she says.

Molly smooshes her palm against her mouth, but that's as far as she gets in mimicking Mary Anne's action.

"Night, Charlie," Mary Anne says softly.

"Goodnight," he says, and he watches her close the door behind her.

* * *

Charlie's used to going through the evening routine without Mary Anne there – she often spends her weekends in Stoneybrook, leaving he and Molly with the apartment to themselves – but it's different tonight. He can feel an ugly weight in his chest. He recognises it as jealousy, resentment, and he doesn't like it.

He puts Molly to bed and tidies up the toys she's spread across the apartment over the course of the day. He runs the dishwasher and watches the rain falling against the kitchen windows. He finds himself wondering what Mary Anne is doing – where they are, what they're talking about – and then he remembers the plastic packet he saw on her nightstand and wonders if she'll even come home.

"Stop being an asshole," he tells himself.

He takes a shower and lets the water pour down against his skin, but he can't get his mind off Mary Anne, out on a date with someone else.

He figures he has two choices – he either tells her how he feels, which could end in two possibilities: she reciprocates, which would only strengthen the arrangement they already have, and provide more stability for Molly – or she rejects him, which would not only risk 25 years of friendship, but might cause her to move out and not want to be anywhere near him. Which would then mean he'd have to find someone to replace her.

On the other hand, he can ignore it all, pretend his feelings towards her haven't changed at all since Mary Anne moved in, and keep everything as it already is.

He's just pulling back the comforter on his bed when he hears the apartment door open and close. He glances at the clock – not even ten yet – and heads for the kitchen.

Mary Anne jumps and claps her hand to her chest when he appears in the doorway. "You scared me," she whispers, smiling at him.

He smiles back. "Sorry."

She pads with stockinged feet to the stove and weighs the kettle in her hand. "Tea?"

"Sure." He sits on one of the stools by the counter and watches her gather mugs.

"You're home early," he says eventually, trying to keep his tone light.

She shrugs. They haven't turned the light on, and Charlie can see the rain shadows moving over her face as water slides down the window panes.

"Are you okay?" Charlie asks.

"Yes," she says, and she smiles at him, but she can't hold his gaze. "It was okay. I mean – it wasn't horrible. There just wasn't any..." She motions between them, a little wave back and forth that sets his heart thumping hard. "Connection," she says. "You know?"

Charlie wants to ask if she thinks she has a connection with him, but it sounds pathetic no matter what way he tries to phrase it. He watches her pour out two mugs of tea, and she slides one over and leans on the counter opposite him, blowing against the steam gently.

"Tell me he at least walked you home," Charlie says. There's an odd feeling in his throat as he realises she looks unhappy, but he can't be upset that her date didn't go well. He feels almost cruel.

"I caught a cab," Mary Anne says, smiling at him. She shrugs and sets her mug down, running her finger around the rim. "I would have had a better night in with you and Molly, I think."

"Well, of course," Charlie says, smiling back at her.

They drink in silence for a while, listening to the rain fall outside, but Mary Anne seems distracted, and Charlie can't help but feel she's avoiding eye contact with him.

He's about to ask her what's wrong, again, when she sets her mug aside, tea still sloshing in the bottom.

"I'm going to go to bed," she says.

He spins on the stool and catches her hand as she passes him, dropping to his feet. "Hey," he says.

She looks up at him in surprise.

"What's up?" he asks, and his stomach drops when she looks down again, not able to hold his gaze. He wonders if he's done something wrong – if she picked up on his jealousy somehow and he's managed to screw everything up without even uttering a word.

She draws in a quivery breath and shakes her head, still looking down. "No, nothing," she says. "I'm just feeling a bit weird. He kind of put me on edge, I guess."

Charlie feels that unpleasant lurch in his gut again. "What did he do?"

"Nothing," Mary Anne says, and she gives him a patient, steady smile. "He was a nice guy. Just not the right guy."

Charlie loosens his grip on her fingers just slightly, just so his skin slides against hers. "Well," he says, "the right guy will come along."

She nods, and maybe it's the shadowed light, but her eyes look a little too bright, like she's near tears, and when her gaze locks with his again he can feel everything suddenly fall into place between them.

He shifts his fingers again, against hers, around hers, so he's not just keep her still, but holding her hand, his thumb brushing back and forth over her skin. He can hear her take another quivery breath, and then her other hand is against his cheek and she's pulling him down to kiss her.

They don't get it quite right, the first time – his mouth doesn't land upon hers as it should, and he shifts, hears her whisper half a mortified apology and she tries to step back, before he cups her face in his hands and kisses her properly, moving with her, not parted, desperate.

She makes a small noise of relief and her hands slide up over his shoulders and she clings to him hard, pulling herself closer to him, rising up on her toes.

He feels light-headed. He drops his hands to her waist and pulls her closer, and she twists and pulls him with her, staggering backwards until he can pin her against the wall. He slides one hand up her waist, curling his fingers against the thin fabric of her blouse, and she breathes out, gasps, and kisses him again, mouth warm and open against his.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see the glow of light spilling from his open bedroom door, and he steers her to it, fingers fumbling with the zip at the waist of her skirt, pulling her blouse loose. She pulls at the back of his t-shirt and he breaks away from her and ducks his head just long enough for her to slide it up and over his shoulders and drop it to the floor.

When they fall onto the bed her skirt is already loose around her knees. Charlie parts from her mouth, flicks his tongue over the hollow of her throat as he makes his way down to hook his fingers into her dark patterned tights and her panties and pull them off, kneeling and tugging until she's free of them and her legs are bare. He slides his hands up her thighs to grasp her hips and drag her back down the bed towards him, her blouse riding up to bare her stomach.

He pulls it gently over her head and cups her face with one hand so he can angle her mouth under his, and then he curls his fingers between her thighs. Her next breath has a soft voice to it, a small cry at the back of her throat, and her fingernails mark crescents on his back.

At the back of his head, momentary panic comes, and he wonders if he's going to fuck everything up and ruin it all – and then he remembers she kissed him first, so he's not alone in wanting this, after all.

Jess had never been shy about letting him know what she wanted when it came to sex. Mary Anne is leaving him to guess, but his mind is too fogged to really pay attention to how she's reacting to every little touch or kiss against her skin.

She's wet and hot around his fingers and he needs her to come because he's not going to last long enough to make it happen with anything but his hands or his mouth. She arches under him and her thighs trap his hand; her breath explodes damp against his throat in the rough shape of his name.

He kicks his pants to the end of the bed and settles his body between her thighs, stroking her again so she jolts and twitches, her breath hard and fast, everything still over-sensitive and raw. He buries his face against her neck as he thrusts inside her, teeth and lips leaving little red marks and prints on her skin.

She hums a soft noise and parts her legs so the angle of her changes, and it's enough to drive Charlie over the edge.

"God," he gasps, and when he comes his hand is twined with hers above her head, fingers wrapped tightly, sweat thin and warm on their skin.

They're still for a minute or so, trying to catch their breath, hearts racing. Charlie can see the flutter of Mary Anne's pulse in her throat. He presses his lips against it gently and closes his eyes, drowsy and happy.

She pulls her fingers slowly through his hair and presses a kiss to his brow. "I love you," she says quietly.

Charlie falls asleep with her fingers stroking patterns across his shoulders, her heartbeat under his ear.

* * *

It's not quite light yet, the bedroom grey and shadowed, rain still falling outside.

"Daaaad," Molly calls again.

"Oh my god," he mutters against Mary Anne's neck. "The neighbours hate me."

She laughs quietly.

He shifts just enough to make eye contact with her.

She smiles at him. "Hi," she says.

"Hi." His hand traces the bare curve of her waist and she stretches contentedly and closes her eyes again.

"Dad!" Molly shouts. "Dad-dad-dad-dad."

"Molly, go back to sleep!" Charlie calls.

"Futile," Mary Anne whispers at him.

"Hm."

She grins and kisses him, her thumb stroking over his cheek, fingers curling gently against the hollow behind his ear. "I kind of have to get up anyway," she says, glancing towards his bathroom.

He kisses her again, his fingertips sliding over the warm skin just under her breast. "Meet you back here in five minutes," he says.

He pulls his pyjamas back on before he leaves the bedroom. Molly is standing in her crib, looking impatient, her curls a frizzed mess at the back of her head.

"Hey, Miss Molly," Charlie says, lifting her and kissing her cheek.

He changes her diaper and carries her back to his bedroom, where Mary Anne is leaning against his pillows, wearing his bathrobe. Molly twists to get down and Charlie watches her crawl clumsily over the bed to bury her face against Mary Anne's stomach.

"Hello," Mary Anne laughs, stroking her fingers through Molly's hair.

"Hey," Charlie says, hoping his voice sounds light, "maybe we could all go out for breakfast this morning." He sits against the pillows beside Mary Anne, watching Molly pull the sheet up over her face. "As a – as a family."

Mary Anne takes his hand and grins back at Molly when she peers over the top of the sheet. "I'd really like that," she says.


	50. Rain

**Title/Prompt:** Rain  
**Rating/Warnings:** R | explicit sexual content  
**Word count:** 3150  
**Summary:** "Tell me what's making you happy," he says against her ear, and this is what she loves so much about Alan; what she will always love about him: he's so ready to see the glass half full and to focus on the silver linings.

**Notes:** Another fic for **Porn Battle XV The Ides of Porn**, using the porn battle prompts: giggle, ribbon, quiet, lipstick, naked

It also fills the long-distance relationship square on my **cottoncandy_bingo** card.

**AND THIS IS PROMPT 50 OMG I'M HALFWAY THROUGH MY TABLE YOU GUYS YESSSS**

**Beta:** Thank you, isabelquinn!

* * *

Claudia stands in front of the mirror with a tube of bright red lipstick in her hand, pressing her lips together to smudge and blend the colour, the slick feel of it and the muted scent only heightening her anticipation.

She looks at the clock on her desk. Alan is late, but it doesn't matter because she's not quite ready yet, anyway. (She hopes he's just late because the rain has slowed traffic down, or that his last class of the day ran a little over, and not because he's lost and can't remember where her dorm is.)

She hasn't seen him since Christmas. They send emails most days – Claudia spends more time on them than she does any of her essays – but it's not the same as having him close. There's more than a five hour drive stretched between them, and there aren't as many opportunities to shorten their distances as they had first promised each other there would be.

Claudia steps back and checks her reflection in the mirror, trying to see what Alan will see. She's wearing a black and purple dress, fitted and panelled, lace and zips. It's freezing outside but she's got a red coat that falls to her knees she can wear until they can settle into a stuffy booth at the restaurant four blocks away.

She's rummaging for her boots when there's a knock at the door. She slams her closet shut and fumbles with the lock on her door for a moment before she pulls it open to find Alan, drenched and cold with a grin on his face.

She should care that he's wet – towel his hair, let him change into something warm and dry before they go out. She should care that he's wet and he's touching her even though she's dry and she's just spent a half hour on her make up and even longer brushing her hair out so it's light and shiny like silk, but she can't care because his hands are cold on her face and he's kissing her, kicking the door closed behind him and half-tripping over his bag as he drops it and backs her into the room.

She laughs into his mouth, her heart racing, blood pounding in her temples and her fingertips. She can feel rainwater on her skin as she drags her hands through Alan's hair, and she grins when he starts moving his mouth so he's not just against her lips; he's kissing her chin and her cheeks and her nose, and his hands are holding her waist so tight, pulling her against him.

Her lipstick is smeared everywhere, and she takes a moment to drop her head and suck against the pulse in his throat, laughing again when she sees the rough smudge of it on his skin.

"Missed you," he breathes, backing her against the bed.

"Missed you, too," she says, and if she dwelt on it too long she would be able to feel an ache in her throat at the thought of how long it has been, but he's here now and he's still mouthing those breathless little kisses against her face.

She tugs his coat down his arms so it's on the floor in a heap and pulls him on top of her, her narrow bed creaking under their weight. Alan's hands search against her back as he seeks the zip to get her dress undone. He gives up and she sucks in a sharp breath as he pushes it up to her waist, stroking cold fingers over her warm skin.

She bought lingerie for tonight – proper, expensive underwear that has no place in the world other than to be purely impractical and just for show – and she feels little twinge as she thinks of her lost dollars when Alan drags her panties down without even noticing how tiny and sheer and almost ridiculous they are. They catch at her knees and Alan is already fumbling in the drawer of her nightstand for condoms, trying to undo his jeans with his other hand.

Claudia laughs into his chest and helps him, hands catching on fabric and his weight pressing against her in odd places as he shuffles and shoves and tries to get undressed enough so this will work.

He glides two fingers into her first and she's already wet, anticipation and excitement having kept her on edge all day, heart racing. She clutches his hips and bends her knees, and her tongue is warm and wet against his when he slides inside her properly, hot and hard and fast.

He buries his face against her neck and she can feel his teeth and his tongue; his hands grip her hips hard, keeping her pinned as he thrusts into her. She would be embarrassed about how easily and quickly she comes, but he's right behind her, following her body along the bed as she whimpers and squirms under him, muscles curling and burning as her blood lights like fire in her veins.

He gasps against her shoulder for a moment, catching his breath, before they slowly separate themselves, sweat prickling under Claudia's arms, between her breasts and against her back.

Alan's face is red and stained from her lipstick, and she imagines she doesn't look much different.

"Hi," he says, grinning up at her as he settles against her pillow, his hair still rain-damp and curling.

She rolls on top of him again, hands clenched in his shirt, kissing him, tasting his skin and memorising the feel and shape of his mouth against hers. "Hi," she whispers.

He moves his hands up her sides, his palms resting high on her ribs, and he grins and lets out a satisfied little noise when he finds the zip against the side of her dress. He peels it open and she pulls her arms out of the sleeves and kicks the material all the way off to the floor.

"I've missed you so much," she whispers, leaning over him, her hair curtaining across them in a soft tangle.

His palms move slowly over her skin, fingers tracing the light ridges of her spine and the dips and angles of her shoulder blades, the thin straps of her bra. "I've missed you too," he says softly. "This long distance thing sucks."

She nods and settles on top of him, her cheek against his shoulder, arms tucked between them, knees either side of his hips. "It's harder than I thought," she admits, guilty.

He strokes her hair down over her shoulder and doesn't say anything. His hands are warm now and he lets them linger against her skin as he touches her, tracing the curve of her ear, the soft flesh of her thigh.

She tilts her head so she can kiss his cheek, and the sight of all that lipstick still makes her want to laugh. "We're supposed to be having dinner," she reminds him.

"I can eat when I'm alone in my own dorm," he says grinning up at her ceiling as she tastes the edge of his jaw.

She tugs at his shirt and he lifts himself so she can pull it over his head.

"Why am I always naked way before you are?" she asks.

"You look better naked than I do," Alan says, kicking his jeans the rest of the way down so they drop off the edge of the bed. "Do I look good in lipstick?"

"Really sexy," Claudia says against his mouth.

He laughs and rolls her over, arms tight around her, fingers digging almost painfully into her as he pulls her close. "Tell me what's making you happy," he says against her ear, and this is what she loves so much about Alan; what she will always love about him: he's so ready to see the glass half full and to focus on the silver linings.

"You're here," she says first.

"Good answer," he says.

"It's Friday night, which is my favourite time of the week."

"Mm," he agrees, kissing her shoulder.

"Spring break is another week closer."

"Spring break," Alan echoes softly. "Two whole weeks of no classes and no long distance, right?"

"Right," she agrees, not caring at all that she's going to be back in Stoneybrook with no plans when Alan is going to be there as well.

"All of those things are making me happy, too," Alan says. His fingers fumble along the back of her bra, and Claudia reaches between her breasts to unsnap the front clasp.

"Why are all of your clothes so confusing tonight?" he asks, pushing the material aside to cup his hands against her breasts.

"Keeping you on your toes," she says with a smile.

The rain rolls in waves against the window, a soothing background noise against their breathing and shifting against one another.

"What's that phrase?" Claudia asks after a while, fingers dragging slowly through Alan's hair, his teeth against her lower lip as she whispers to him. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder?"

"Sounds familiar." His hand squeezes her breast, thumb stroking against her nipple in increasingly-fast little flicks and taps.

"D'you love me more with distance?" she asks, nerves jumping in time to his touch.

He drops a kiss against her chin and trails his tongue against the pulse in her neck, down to the curve of her collar bone. "I love you," he says, simple and straight – always to the point. "But I hate everything about the distance."

"Me too."

His hand cups between her legs and he starts rubbing slowly, fingers teasing in circles. "When I'm not here," he says, a dangerous, excited edge in the tone of his voice, "do you think about this?"

She parts her legs and shifts underneath him, breathing out as his fingers play with pressure and speed. "Yes," she admits, and her voice sounds raw.

She can feel him grinning against her ear, can hear it in his next question. "Do you touch yourself?"

"Do you fantasise about that?" she asks with a laugh.

"It's part of my morning routine," he says. "Sometimes part of my night routine, too. I think about it a _lot_."

"That's beautiful," Claudia says. "You're so romantic, Alan." She bites her lip suddenly when he slides a finger into her and starts to stroke slowly.

"You didn't answer me," he says after a moment. He moves his hand and starts to run his fingers over her thigh and her belly, tickling and soft and not where she wants his touch at all.

She squirms impatiently. "Yes," she says. "I touch myself."

He grins down at her triumphantly and she can't help but think what a brat he is, sometimes.

"Show me," he says. He catches her hand and guides it between her legs before he starts to kiss her again. "Show me," he says, whispering the words into her mouth.

His touches are evasive now – just enough to brush her nerve endings to life again, fire flaring deep in her belly, but not enough to let it spread to anything greater.

She gives a moan that's mostly impatience and a little reluctance before she starts to rub her fingers against herself. Alan twines his hand with hers but lets her control the movement, pressure, speed.

When Claudia's breathing is ragged and loud and her heels are digging into the mattress, fingers slick and insistent now, Alan pulls away so he can watch her, his hand spreading wide over her stomach so he can feel her ripple and buck when she finally comes.

Claudia hums a satisfied noise against his arm and keeps her eyes closed.

"That was hot," Alan whispers against her brow.

She grins and props herself up on her elbows, wincing when her hair catches under her own weight. She sweeps it over her shoulder and looks at him. "Your turn," she says.

"I jack off every day," he says bluntly. "It's almost at the point I can't even get excited enough about it to get started now."

"You just get more and more desirable," Claudia says, rolling her eyes.

He laughs and pulls her back into his arms, rolling so she's on top of him. His hands slide down her arms and over her thighs; his fingers tickle over her ribs. She catches his hand and sucks his fingers into her mouth, tasting the musk salt of herself on his skin.

He makes a soft noise of approval and lets his head drop back onto her pillow as he watches her. "You've still got lipstick, like, all over your face," he says after a moment.

"You should take a look in the mirror," Claudia says, nipping at his fingertips. She leans over to her nightstand and pulls a long, thick red ribbon from the drawer.

"Are you going to gift wrap my dick?" Alan asks with interest. "Because that's the best idea ever. Also, I know what I'm getting you for your next birthday."

She laughs. "Shut up."

She lets the satin-soft ribbon trail over his skin, coils it in loose loops in her fingers before she starts to stroke his erection.

He jumps and breathes out a satisfactory groan, eyes open and watching her all the time.

"Good?" she asks, grinning at him. She tightens her hand around him just so and lets the ribbon slip against his skin.

"Fuck," he gasps, clutching the sheets in his fist.

She wants to kiss him again, but she knows one of Alan's favourite things is to watch, so she sits back on her heels and sweeps her hair away so he can see her chest. She can feel him pulsing in her hand and she slows her speed down.

"Faster," he protests, breathless.

She straddles him and leans forward, hands either side of his shoulders and the ribbon still wrapped around her fingers. "Start bossing me around and I'll stop," she warns him.

He gives a chuckle of delight, hands cupping her breasts again. "Yes ma'am. Sorry, ma'am."

She takes his hands and pins them above his head, and he lifts his head to suck her nipple into his mouth, biting gently. It pulls the thread of fire tight in Claudia's belly again.

She loops the ribbon around his wrists and the metal rail of her bed frame, tying a bow he could easily slide loose with his fingers if he wanted to.

"Don't pull too tight," she warns him.

"Yeah, that's not gonna hold me," he says, craning his head to look up at her handwork.

"Right, your strength is equal to Superman," she says, raising her eyebrow at him.

"If you're gonna make fun, I'll leave," he warns her, but he's grinning and his eyes are shining up at her with such adoration it makes Claudia's heart thump painfully.

She kisses him hard on the mouth, to really shut up him this time, and because she can. He can't take her face in his hands and shape her or move her at all; she's in control and she's deciding. She can feel him shift under her as soon as he realises this; he melts and gives a soft groan at the back of his throat.

Claudia sits back and looks at him for a moment before she sweeps her hair around and traps it against her neck with her hand. She keeps her eyes raised to his as she flicks her tongue against his his chest, leaving a wet trail of kisses on his skin until she's almost at the foot of the bed and she can take him into her mouth.

The bed creaks as Alan tries to lower his hands, arching towards her, and he closes his fingers tightly around the metal bed frame when the ribbon pulls tight.

It's hard to keep her eyes raised to his like this, hard to concentrate on what she's doing and also try to fulfil that base need of his to _see_ everything, but she does her best, and Alan doesn't seem to be harbouring any complaints.

"Fuck," he gasps again, grey eyes wide, squirming under her, fingers white-knuckled around the rail above him.

She sucks him in as far as she can and hums, hands planted against his thighs so he can't move so fast it'll surprise her and make her lose control of this. She drags her tongue over him and listens to his breath sob and tear over the constant sound of the rain outside.

"Claud," he says, voice cracking, needy, "I'm gonna come."

She slides her tongue under him and takes him as deep as she can, and when he comes she's got her gaze raised to him again, her weight holding him down as he cries out, chest heaving.

She sits up beside him and watches him catch his breath, nerves jumping in his arms. The ribbon has pulled tight and his hands are starting to change colour. Claudia takes two long swallows from the glass of water on the nightstand before she reaches over to pull the knots loose.

"You pulled it too tight," she says, mock annoyance, nipping at his earlobe.

"You'll have to get your assassin's knife," he says tiredly.

"My assassin's knife?"

"Some of my fantasies about you are pretty elaborate."

She laughs and buries her face against his neck once she's pulled the ribbon loose again. He curls his arms around her and sighs, letting the room settle into soft breathing and the sound of rain.

"When do you have to go back?" Claudia asks, voicing the question quietly and reluctantly.

He stirs drowsily. "If I want to make class on Monday I have to leave here at like 4AM ," he says.

She smiles against the bare skin of his shoulder, but there's still an ache in her heart. "So you're leaving on Sunday night, then?" she asks.

He draws his lips softly over her brow and laces his fingers through hers, their hands resting on his chest. "No," he says. "4AM Monday morning. Set your alarm, Kishi."

She gives a laugh into his neck and lifts herself above him, stroking light touches against his nose and through his hair, ghosting her fingertips against his closed eyelashes. "You're the only one I'd ever wake that early for," she murmurs.

He grins, but he's sleepy, and he doesn't open his eyes. "Love you, too," he says.


	51. Accident

**Title/Prompt:** Accident  
**Rating/Warnings:** G  
**Word count:** 2090  
**Summary:** Charlotte's favourite question is one with a definitive answer she can never seem to discover.

**Notes:** Just FYI, the prompt for this one is the most tenuously linked thing _ever_, and I suspect I will be warning for that more and more often as I progress towards 100. It's really not a big-running theme through the fic at all, it relates to maybe one paragraph, but damn it, it's there, and I'm using it.

It also fills the 'favourite' square on my **cottoncandy_bingo** card, and 'favourite' really is a better-suited prompt.

**AND**, specific to FFN'ers, I'm so so so sorry I'm so bad at replying to reviews. I seem to be better at it on AO3 or DW, and I don't know why. But I really, really appreciate every comment, favourite, subscription, etc. Thank you so much for your support through the first 50 of my 100 fics. *hearts*

**Beta:** This one is unbeta'd because I am impatient: it feels like a long time since I wrote anything.

* * *

For as long as she could remember, Charlotte's parents had told her how very important it was to ask questions, because asking questions was how you learned almost everything, even if you didn't ask aloud.

"If you ask a question to yourself, you still want to find the answer, don't you?" her father said, and Charlotte nodded solemnly and then thought very carefully about a question she wanted the answer to, because it seemed that by asking that question, Daddy wanted one in return.

Sometimes she asked serious questions, like _what is the moon made of?_ (rock and dust and not even a little bit of cheese), or _how long is Hickory Creek?_ (seven miles before it goes underground, and nobody knows after that).

Her favourite question, though, was the question with a definitive answer which she never received, no matter how often she asked. Questions which required a side of guesswork and mystery-solving were so much more interesting than questions which had already been solved by others; questions which had their answers printed in books a thousand times over.

"How did you and Mommy meet?"

The answer changed every time, and it was up to Charlotte to figure out whether or not she had ever received the facts; to determine time and time again whether the story was mere fancy or a wonderful telling of truth.

"We were pen pals," Daddy told her when she was four and they were sitting at the kitchen table with the warm scent of buttered toast in the air. "We wrote pages and pages of letters to one another and they crossed the country state by state and arrived with stamps from places we still haven't been to, and the envelopes covered with fingerprints belonging to people we'll never meet."

And Mommy set a plate of scrambled eggs down in front of him and smiled and said, "Your writing was always terrible, but you signed every letter with a little kiss, so I forgave you."

There was, however, a distinct lack of evidence to support this story, as Charlotte had never seen a box or a trunk or a drawer filled with letters from one parent to another.

This, then, was a falsehood. But a good story all the same.

* * *

One Saturday morning, when Charlotte was five and the early sun was melting the icicles hanging from the eaves with a steady drip-drip-drip, she snuggled herself between her parents in bed and asked the question again.

"How did you meet Daddy?"

Charlotte watched her mother's gaze rise slightly so she was looking over Charlotte's head at Daddy; saw the way the little lines around her dark eyes creased in a smile before she looked back at her again.

"I was an intern and he came in with a broken finger after he'd caught his hand in a door," Mommy said. "I set his bones, and when I put his finger in a splint he told me he wanted to thank me by taking me to dinner."

"I was so distracted by such a pretty smile my finger stopped hurting almost at once," Daddy said, pulling the quilt up so it was tucked beneath Charlotte's chin.

Charlotte thought this story was plausible, until she asked why Daddy's fingers weren't crooked, and her mother just gave her a grin and closed her eyes again, burrowing down into her pillow as the ice kept melting outside.

* * *

Sometimes, the best way to get an answer was to work backwards, by ruling out a possibility you'd already thought of.

"Did you meet Mommy at the beach?" she asked one summer, curling her toes in the wet sand and clinging tightly to her parents' hands as the surf rolled towards them again. Fear quivered in her belly at the sound and sight of so much water.

"No," Daddy said, looking first at Mommy and then down at Charlotte, the salt-tipped wind blowing his hair back. "It was when she was camping with Aunt Nell and I was camping with some friends from college, and we met in the middle of a pine forest and shared s'mores around a campfire."

"It was cold," Mommy added, and she grinned when a wave, shallowed out by its long run up the sand, washed over her feet and around her ankles. "The wind made a wonderful noise when it blew through all those pine branches."

Charlotte could not think of a reason as to why this would not be true, until she asked Aunt Nell if she had ever been camping in a pine forest, and Aunt Nell said no, she hadn't.

* * *

"Will you tell us a bedtime story?" Charlotte requested, one arm looped over the fat, snuffling little puppy they had so carefully selected that afternoon.

"Which one?" Daddy asked, sitting on the end of Charlotte's bed and nodding to her overflowing bookcase. Mommy leaned against the doorjamb with folded arms and a small smile.

"Tell me how you met Mommy," Charlotte said, shifting her eyes from one parent to another and back again.

Mommy sank onto the bed beside Daddy and the puppy snuffed and quivered and then stilled again, quick, heavy breaths rising and falling under Charlotte's arm.

"I think it was in Paris, wasn't it, dear?" Daddy asked, taking Mommy's hand.

"In the Louvre," Mommy agreed, a dreamy smile on her face. "I was admiring the Marly Horses. When we go to the library tomorrow, Char, I'll find an art book and show you a picture. They're beautiful. And one day we'll take you to Prospect Park in Brooklyn and show you the Horse Tamers."

"They're beautiful, too," Daddy added. "Very powerful, and they leave you feeling very small and very inspired."

"We stood there in front of these big stone horses and we didn't say anything for a long time," Mommy said. "But we were both feeling the same things, and we were both sharing a very special and personal moment, and it's very hard to let go of someone after you share something so moving together, even if it's in silence."

And then Daddy kissed Mommy's cheek and Charlotte hugged the puppy a little closer. A follow up question might separate fact from fiction, but Charlotte didn't care to find out, this time.

* * *

"In the summer between high school and college, Guillaume's Circus came to town," Daddy said, his fingers still curled around the steering wheel as they waited in the hospital parking lot for Mommy to come and meet them. "I needed some extra money so I took on a job as a clown, and I fell in love with Mommy the minute I saw her flying through the air to catch the next trapeze bar in her hands."

Charlotte just fixed him with a shrewd look when his eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror, and he laughed and looked out the window towards the hospital again.

* * *

"We were both as old as you are now," Mommy said as they stood beneath a towering maple waiting for Carrot to finish nosing at the orange leaves beneath. "We were in hospital with tonsillitis, our beds opposite one another, and he kept pulling faces at me as we ate our ice cream and waited for the time we could go home."

Charlotte remembered the scratchy, sore feeling of tonsillitis and grimaced in sympathy.

And then she thought for a moment and said, "You couldn't both be as old as I am now. Daddy is two years older than you."

"Is he?" her mother asked mildly, and she smiled and took Charlotte's hand as Carrot tugged on the leash again, eager to progress further on their walk.

"_Is_ he?" Charlotte asked with wide eyes, wondering suddenly what was truth and what wasn't.

"He is," Mommy confirmed. "I must have gotten that part mixed up."

* * *

When her parents renewed their vows, Charlotte half-hoped she could find out the real story, and half-hoped she would not.

"How did they meet?" she asked Aunt Nell late in the evening, yellow lights strung across the back yard, music murmuring under the chatter and laughter of their friends and family.

Aunt Nell laughed, and looked over at Charlotte's parents, standing with their arms around each other, her father's head dipped so his brow rested against her mother's. "Feels like they've just always known each other," she said, and Charlotte didn't bother prompting for a more detailed answer than that, because she knew nothing else would be quite so satisfactory.

* * *

"There's been an accident on the I-95," Mom said as Charlotte stood in the assistant principal's office, clutching the phone with white-knuckled hands. "Dad's got a concussion, but he'll be okay. He might have to stay in overnight."

"I'm coming to see him," Charlotte said firmly, though she didn't know how she'd get there. She passed the phone back to Mr. Kingbridge, and he spoke in quiet tones with Charlotte's mom for a moment and then offered to drive Charlotte to the bus station, if Dr. Johanssen was okay with that.

Forty minutes later she was sitting on a bus to Stamford, fists clenched tightly in her lap as they passed over the criss-crossed rubber marks and the glittering glass still on the black-top.

Her mother was sitting on the edge of her father's hospital bed when she arrived, fingers combing gently through Dad's hair, an eggplant bruise on the side of his face.

"Char's here," she said softly, smiling, and Dad opened his eyes, though they weren't quite right, and Charlotte took a moment to remind herself of everything she knew about concussion.

"Are you okay?" she asked in a small voice, and the tears she'd managed to hold back on the bus suddenly overwhelmed her and spilled over.

"I'm okay," Dad promised, his voice quiet and drowsy.

Charlotte sat on the other side of the bed and took his hand, and she started asking questions, because questions and answers could sometimes be comfortable and confined; they didn't always have to open new doors of knowledge or exploration. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Happened ahead of me," Dad said. "Just couldn't stop in time."

"When's your birthday?" Charlotte demanded, and her mother chuckled lightly and she saw Dad's mouth lift into a little smile.

"May nine," he said. "And yours is the third of June."

She relaxed a little bit, and they all sat there in silence for a little while, listening to the noise of the hospital corridor on the other side of the open door.

"How did you meet Mom?" Charlotte asked after a while, and she wondered if this time he would answer seriously to prove he really could remember, or if he felt well enough to continue the game they had always played.

He shifted his head on the pillow, a little frown on his face. "On the subway," he said. "When I worked in New York City and she was still an intern, and we took the train to the same station every day. She always had her nose buried in some book or another, and it was weeks before she looked up at me and I got to see the colour of her eyes."

Charlotte's mother laughed softly and stroked his hair again, and Charlotte could tell – though she didn't know how – that he had not told her the truth this time, either.

* * *

"You don't know how to tango," Charlotte said, rolling her eyes.

Dad spun Mom and she leaned back over his arm, tipping her head right back so she was looking at Charlotte upside-down.

"Of course we do," Mom said. "We met during a masquerade ball in the marble court of the Versailles, dressed in our finery and tangoing up a storm in front of celebrities and royalty."

Dad pulled her upright, hands catching hers as they stepped into the square of sunlight spilling through the living room window. "Later that night we stole a pearl necklace from a duchess and caught a midnight train to Giverny, and they haven't caught us yet," he said with a grin.

* * *

"You're the smartest person I know," Becca once whispered in the dim hush of the Stoneybrook Public Library, papers and text books scattered between them as they studied for a calculus exam. "If you really wanted to find out how they met, you could."

"I know," Charlotte said with a smile, her fingers aching as she pressed pen to paper. "But sometimes the best part of asking a question is knowing there are still endless possibilities when it comes to an answer."


End file.
